Marriage Something
by CloudKat
Summary: It must be acknowledged that none of this was their idea, and that yes, they'll try to be friends, but everything else that everyone expects is more than likely not going to happen. Really. Sokka, Zuko, and a betrothal. AU in the same universe, expanded.
1. Departure

**Marriage Something.**

_Departure._

_*  
_

Sokka doubles over, laughing loudly— almost too loudly— his hand covering his eyes, his mouth agape. He laughs so hard he feels he has to sit down, so he does, an abrupt _thump!_ into a cross legged position, his obnoxious gasping for air decorating the floor of his father's private sitting room nearly as well as the plush, bear-fur carpeting.

Hakoda, Kaskae (Chieftain) of the Southern Water Tribe, frowns deeply in exasperation and puts up a solemn hand, only to be ignored in favor of his son's histrionics—Sokka was practically rolling—and the hand goes down slowly, as if in disappointment. Soon, all solemnity forgotten and the role of chief replaced with a harried, yet good-humored father, Hakoda's face breaks out at the corner into a small grin, and he begins to chuckle as well.

"Sokka," begins Hakoda, covering his mouth as his deep blue eyes formed tiny crescents, "I know it sounds ridiculous—"

Sokka settles into heaves of mirth, clutching at his sides; he is sure that this was all an ill-intentioned joke—farce seemed to spawn around him like rabbits, anyway, so how was this any different? Even better, he should wake up any second to his sister splashing him in the face again with an irritable, Get up, you lazy bum, and stop rolling around, I can hear it from two rooms over.

He watches as his father quietly leaves their low, imported mahogany table to retrieve a small document, its red wax seal broken and lying sparse like a weathered pine, and his heart sinks to his elbows.

"Don't make that face, son, it's unbecoming of the son of a chief."

"You're serious." A subtle clenching of a fist.

"Yeah, well, that face is awful—but, yes. I am, Sokka. They've called for you; it is your duty, now, son, to accept." Hakoda dips his head to his son's level, trying to meet eyes that avoid him.

Sokka rises suddenly, upstarting the table and nearly knocking over the ornate, whale-oil lamps that serve as the only light in the room; the darkening, arctic sky outside calls for torches, but in Hakoda's rush to inform his son of the unsettling news, the doors to his chamber remain locked, the servants left out. Sokka begins to pace wildly, the cogs in his mind turning—he turns, snarls, "Never," and flees the room. Hakoda remains, folding his hands in his lap. He sighs, wearily, and follows.

*

Sokka's quick strides lead him through the great ice and animal skin hallways of the long houses and lodges that comprised the Southern Water Tribe Chieftain's family home, the vast pelt carpeting turning twisted in his vision as anger twitters through him like scattered butterflies. How dare his father agree to this—how dare he say that it was his duty to uphold this bullshit?

In his lack of focus, Sokka barely has enough time to register a resplendent, blue-colored fur coat (a replica of his own) turning the corner just as he does—he flails as the other person knocks into him, throwing him off balance and sending him tumbling to the floor.

"Oh, I'm so… Sokka, what in the world are you doing, running around without the torches lit? It's a wonder that you can see during daylight, you oaf; you shouldn't even try in the dark." A giggle, and a gentle hand pulls him up.

"Katara," Sokka whines, "I'm trying to storm angrily. What's the use of storming angrily when your little sister just makes fun of you?"

"You deserve it," she says matter-of-factly, and sticks out her tongue. When her brother fails to respond, her eyes take on that accursed mothering air and she reaches out to touch his arm. "What's wrong with you? You look pale."

"I just talked to Dad."

"About your fiancée? Sokka, that's wonderful—who is she? Is she pretty—is she Earth Kingdom? It's not political, is it?"

Sokka stares her in the eye, saying lowly, "My fiancée is a boy. And it's so political it makes my head hurt."

"What! Sokka, that's—what? Dad would never agree—"

"Apparently he would."

Katara bites her lip in thought and says, "Well, it can't be that bad," because that's all Katara says in situations like this, ones that she cannot fathom, so Sokka walks away.

Watching her brother's seething back made Katara angry herself, so when Hakoda shows up around the same corner, all she can say is variations of What are you thinking, setting up Sokka in a political marriage, Dad, I thought you knew him better, and Hakoda just sighs again.

"Katara, this doesn't concern Sokka's feelings—he's marrying a Fire Nation boy, and you know how they are with their Crown's prophecies and such. The superstitious tightwads are calling for him to marry their prince, because Sokka's name or image or something kept coming up in a cup of tea or a crystal ball, or whatever it is those soothsayers use at every royal birth," he intones tiredly, as if he'd already told a thousand other people (which he had, only that time around it was in the face of advisor's violent protests of "What! Your only son in a loveless, childless marriage?").

"Soothsayers? I thought that was a myth." Katara furrows her brow in thought, smoothing the loose end of her braid distractedly. She had already decided that she liked fortune tellers better, especially the ones around the Earth Kingdom, because they told her stories about her future husband— not that she cared enough to ask, they just rambled it off during her visits, you know how it is— and those silly soothsayers the Fire Nation were so fond of were different, of course. What they say is law, not something you can brush off like a fortune teller, and what is said at birth is especially revered. Katara finds it silly.

Hakoda laughs a little too loud, like son like father, and pats Katara's head fondly, saying, "Fire Nation! Just as crazy as the rumors, trust me. Uptight, formal, pompous tightwads. The lot of them follow tradition so hard it's like their opium—"

"Dad!"

"Sorry, but it's true. The cup of tea—"

"You don't know if it's tea, Dad. It sounds patronizing when you..."

"The _fancy_ cup of tea said Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe, and Sokka they'll have, or they'll start something, because their tempers are just as high-strung as their superstition," Hakoda finishes without pause because, frankly, he's getting too old for all this arguing. He runs a hand through his half-ponytail and swears as it comes undone.

Katara wordlessly pulls him down to redo it for him, and Hakoda sighs for the thousandth time that night. Whatever would he do with Sokka? That boy is far too hardheaded for his own good—the very idea of leaving his family to court a someone he'd never met is repulsive, and dear ancestors all if Hakoda knew whether the boy was straight or not. These were questions that fathers never asked, nor truly wanted to know—but he knew Sokka enough to say that if duty called, then duty it shall be, because for all of Sokka's goofing off, he was a serious, calculating boy.

He waves Katara off to bed, kissing her cheek and telling her goodnight, and hopes to all ancestors that Sokka hadn't run off. After all, Sokka may be a warrior's son with a warrior's honor, serious, and calculating, but he is just as prone to stupidity as bad luck.

*

He finds Sokka stuck under his own bed.

"Sokka, we need to talk," Hokoda had said in his most officious voice, only to realize that his son was—once again—in a predicament that seemed borderline ridiculous. It took him ten full minutes to pull out his son, and fourteen to stop laughing at him.

"Shut up, I needed something under there," says Sokka, surly. "If you had come twenty minutes later, I would have gotten myself out and I'd be long gone." He resumes packing his stuff: underwear, coats, blankets, all shoved forcefully into a canvas bag embroidered with seal's teeth. Hakoda eyes the shoddy packing job and says nothing but, "You have a boomerang in there, and you still forget your toothbrush?" and Sokka swears and storms into the bathroom to get his toothbrush.

Hakoda sits on Sokka's bed in Sokka's room, which he helped to decorate not four years ago, and taps his moccasins together impatiently. "Can't we talk about this, son?" he says, and Sokka makes faces, as per usual.

"I'm not marrying some random Fire Nation brat because a tarot card pointed in my general direction." He gesticulates slowly, meaningfully, more to himself than anyone.

His father interrupts a second too late, "Fancy tea cup," and Sokka looks at him funny.

"Either way, I'm not doing it, Dad. I can't."

"You can't?" Hakoda stands up, trailing his fingers along the Sokka's rumpled bedspread—the boy harried the servants with all his messiness—and glancing thoughtfully into the brass-colored seal tallow candle votives adorning the space above Sokka's headboard; one of them is crooked in its place because Sokka hits his head on it regularly, and Hakoda reaches over to twiddle with it.

"Dad, you don't have to—"

Hakoda looks him in the eye and says carefully, "It isn't a matter of can and can't, Sokka," and Sokka's mouth clicks shut. "This isn't 'I want,' it's 'it is necessary.' You remember what happened at the beginning of the Century's War?"

Sokka looks away, his lip curling—stubborn thing.

Hakoda takes his chin and gently pushes his son's eyes, royal cobalt, to meet his. "Shang Jin of the Fire Nation was foretold to have Yeon Chae, an Earth Kingdom girl devoted to a convent, and who vowed not to marry—"

"And yeah, yeah, yeah, they fought, blah-blah, and they killed Ye-Chung or whatever her name was on accident in the big "clash." But that's so—outdated! Why in the world does that even still apply? That was before bending was even a mastered thing! Back then, everyone who lived here probably just used waterbending for rocking boats!" Sokka takes a deep breath and continues gesturing wildly after his spiel, as if big, windmilling hand stuff would make his father understand.

"Or for making people cold," says Hakoda thoughtfully, stroking his chin, and Sokka wonders where in the world his wonderful sense of humor comes from, because it's certainly not in his father's genes.

"But, point is, Dad—I'm not marrying some kid boy because some stuffy old, tea drinking wiseman says I have too, or the world will end. If they start a war, it's their fault, because _they're_ the ones causing the world to end, not me. I'm a modernist, sir," Sokka jerks his shoulder out from under his father's hand and huffs, only to feel a firm grasp on his ear.

"Ow!"

"It's your people, you dolt, who will suffer if you refuse," says Hakoda stonily, but because he cannot keep up that face anywhere beside the battlefield and the stratagem hall, he lets go of Sokka's ear and says, with feeling, "It is your duty to protect them. I'm sorry, son, but I'll have to force you if you don't come to your senses. I didn't raise you to be selfish."

Sokka falters at "selfish," a word he's thrown around at his comrades on hunting expeditions or on the occasional battlefront with neighboring rogues; his father sees and smiles widely. He has him.

"Oh, the little bugger can't be that bad," Sokka capitulates, and smiles too. He raises a finger and pokes his father in the chest, saying "I'll try it, but if I hate him, then no money, I'm going home." He hugs his father, a brief embrace, a reluctant, tiny promise: I won't let you down.

"Of course, and if you don't like him, there's always a way out," Hakoda says into the side of Sokka's head and crosses his fingers, because even though these promises are falling from his mouth like peppermint candy, he can't be quite sure with those crazy Fire Nations.

*

Zuko feels like a doll, and he hates everyone. Everyone. Especially Azula, who dressed him, and is currently laughing about it, the frigid little bitch. He hates the flouncy, silk clothes he's wearing, he hates the stupid fire-crown thingy, he hates that he has to marry some Water Tribe royal kin or something and he certainly, certainly hates that he has no control over any of it.

For years, Azula teased him, You're going to marry a boy, you're going to marry a boy, and every time he said Shut up, Azula, it's not my fault (and really, it wasn't), she would return with But it's _your _fate, just like the soothsayer has been repeating for the past seventeen years of his life, and Zuko would tackle her. He was to marry a Sokka. That's it—Sokka, because Water Tribesman aren't supposed to have surnames, just family lines, and he hates him. He's going to meet Sokka next week, and he still hates him, and he'll continue to hate him once he marries him. They will become the crotchety couple that no one wants to be around, he'll make sure of it.

"Oh, Zuzu, you need to lighten up—your sniveling will only stain your robes, and that's tigersheep silk, you know," snickers Azula behind her flawlessly lacquered nails, and Zuko feels like hitting her. You're not supposed to hit girls, but Azula hardly counted as one; she had enough balls to topple an army, if she wanted.

"Shut up," he grinds out. He can hardly do anything else, anyway, because his clothes are practically glued in place due to their superfluous design—the entire outfit needed to stay still in order to remain presentable—but the result just made it difficult to bat an eyelash.

"And he's all ready for his groom," sing-songs Azula as she traipses around him, her flowing movements a mockery to the stones he feels like he's wearing.

"I said shut up, Azula," says Zuko, irritated, but he can't help but feel a little fond of her excessive teasing—the entire situation seemed more ridiculous by the second.

Azula kisses his cheek, mocking him, and he strains to push her away, laughing, "When did you become _not _a monster?" His tall, hideously large amber-plated crown, shaped into a plume of flame, lurches sideways with the motion, and before Zuko can even move a muscle, Azula has it steadied with a wicked looking finger.

She says, coolly, "Probably around puberty. Sounds a bit ironic, though," and he laughs, because Azula's dry humor always gets to him. Her lips curl slightly in return, and her eyes smile, but he's only slightly surprised—she barely smiled with teeth unless someone was in bodily pain.

Azula has always been a conundrum to him, as hot and cold as ice dropped in steaming water— over time, she cooled to a lukewarm sort of sister, one that veers away from open affection, but demonstrates it on occasion through merciless teasing, general cattiness, and casual, arrogant over-protectiveness.

Even so, it had taken them several years to come to terms with each other, after years of endless squabbling and petty tricks; Azula, disgusted by Zuko's seeming inability to excel as she, mocked him while Zuko's anger at himself was vented on Azula—it never seemed to end. When their Uncle Iroh took Zuko under his wing for the first time, Zuko was a mere twelve, he managed to teach him to divert lightning, something Azula the prodigy was deemed unfit to learn by her soothsayer—begrudgingly, ten-year-old Azula began to respect both him and their uncle (through some scolding persuasion from her mother, Ursa), and that respect grew into a sort of bond that the present fifteen-year-old Azula still lacks the capacity to admit and act upon. (She may be a genius, but her scary assertiveness and ridiculous confidence earned her followers, not social skills.) The result is the Azula of today, a hybrid mix of a sociopath and a choosy, feral cat—vain, nearly remorseless, territorial, and tender to few.

Zuko thanks ancestors all that he is one of his sister's favorite people.

"Oh, Zuzu, I'm flattered—you're thinking of me again. I can see the fear," says Azula conversationally, and Zuko marvels at her devil may care pose, leaning against the throne-like chair he has been confined to until his mother comes to check on him. His eyes flicker to her, and she flashes teeth in a decidedly terrifying way. He shivers and makes a face at her.

"Zuko, dearest, how does the robe—_what is that_? Azula!"

"Yes, mama?" Azula's voice is saccharine, and she flounces up to Ursa's side. Ursa, dressed in a casual, plain red robe, her hair loose, grabs her ear.

"What did you dress your brother in?"

"Ow—mama, just the clothes that he's supposed to wear to meet his _betrothed_," grimaces Azula, but the final word still oozes off her tongue to wrap itself around Zuko's ear in a way that rubs him entirely the wrong way. She bats away her mother's hand, and strides confidently away from her to Zuko's vanity (why he has one, no one knows) to fix her hair.

Ursa lets out a long sigh, but her eyes soften fondly at her son's stupid attire. She chuckles and starts to disassemble him, saying softly, "Why in the world would you ever trust your sister to dress you? You know how she is," she tweaks his nose, "and did you really think you were supposed to dress like this, dear? You're meeting him, for ancestor's sake, not going to his funeral." After removing his crown, she ruffles his hair as her lovely golden eyes dance at him. No kohl surrounds them, and her lips aren't painted—this is his favorite side of his mother: natural, like when she played with him when he was young.

"Shamefully gullible," says Azula, flipping a golden lipstick tube from her sleeve and applying a layer of crimson to her full lips. Ursa titters while Zuko gives her a dirty look that says Get these clothes off me! She dutifully undresses him until he sits in his boxers and a feathery light gray robe. He heaves a sigh, golden eyes closed, then opens one to see his mother beaming at him, misty-eyed. Uh-oh.

Azula sidesteps out of the room, the little snake.

Ursa looks so happy that she could weep. So she does, and Zuko's hair is suddenly wet, much to his chagrin. He remains silent, slowly dreading the impending, effusive lecture on true love, honor, and—

Ursa gushes, "Oh, honey, you're finally meeting him—you never heard what the soothsayer said about this boy, he's supposed to match you perfectly—did you know that he's going to be your true love?"

Zuko doesn't even know if he's gay.

"He's wonderful," says Ursa, getting a faraway look to her—lips slack, eyes bright, hands clasped girlishly. "He'll give you everything you've ever wanted, Zuko, isn't that wonderful?"

Zuko doesn't know what he wants.

Ursa embraces him close; she smells like honey and sugar and rosewater bathsalts. In his hair, long, ruffled, braided, she places a kiss. "I'm so proud of you for fulfilling your destiny. This is your first step to true happiness, and it's what I want for you more than anything."

Zuko, more than anything, never wants to disappoint.

He says, "Yes, mother," and embraces her back, leaning his forehead on her's, thinking in his heart that if she believed the soothsayer, then he would, too—after all, this "Sokka" could be his—blanch— true love, even if Zuko didn't like boys, even if he vowed to hate him, even if he was the prince of some foreign block of ice. He supposes he should just be optimistic.

*

A week later, the Fire Nation navy greets him when he wakes up.

Hokada, dressed in his splendid furs and armed, subtly, with a blue jeweled club in a holster at his side, shakes Sokka awake and Sokka, in his boxers, stumbles outside his door to the washroom and runs directly into a small legion of red-armored soldiers, crammed neatly into his hallway.

"Sokka, Prince of the Southern Water Tribe," they say in tandem, bowing briskly at the waist, "we are honored to serve you along your journey to the Fire Nation capital!"

Sokka screams rather girlishly, and Hakoda's arm flies from his doorway, wraps around his neck, and pulls him back in as the Fire Nations soldiers give a collective gasp.

"Prince Sokka," they say, "are you in a state of harm?"

Hakoda shouts, "No! I just need to put on my—wig!" through the doorway, and Sokka wonders why his father's voice is higher, and why it sounds so much like his own—hey!

"I mean get dressed!" bellows Sokka, glaring daggers at his father, who scratches his head sheepishly. "What the_ hell_ are they doing here?"

"They insisted upon it. I couldn't refuse! I mean, they offered to accompany us to the Fire Nation. Then they arrive at dawn, invade our longhouse, but all they want to do is give us food, and draw baths, and help us pack. They're even treating the warriors this way!" Hakoda intones frantically as he runs about, grabbing at Sokka's sealskin packs, and rummaging through the last of his drawers to throw out something presentable for his son to wear. "Go wash up!"

"If you haven't noticed yet, father, there's a league of crazy, servile men outside blocking my way!" shouts Sokka, still in his boxers, his hair down and completely askew. "Have you seen them? They look like they could crush me and they want to give me sponge baths?!"

"Just go, Sokka," barks Hakoda, throwing an outfit over his shoulder in Sokka's general direction (it creamed him in the face, just his luck), "they won't hurt you. They're just enthusiastic—but don't let them get into the bathroom with you, or you're screwed."

"Oh, dear ancestors," says Sokka.

"Not like that, you idiot—" grunts Hakoda as he lifts one of Sokka's sizable bags over his shoulders, "just—put on a shirt and find your sister, first, before you wash up. I'll give your things to them to try and make them disperse, the crazy-ass, Fire Nation foo—"

Sokka hurriedly puts on his shirt, takes a deep breath to brace himself, and leaps out into the fray.

"Greetings, Prince Sokka! Are you in need of assistance?" say his horde, but he can tell they are doubtfully glancing at his hair. He rolls his eyes and tugs on it for effect.

"It's real, guys—have you seen my sister?"

"Oh, Princess Katara!" they say. "She must be in the women's quarters next door! We shall get her for you!" And they march orderly away, briefly murmuring, "Hut, hut," into the tapestry covered hall that leads to the women's quarters. Sokka hears high pitched screams and winces.

Soon, Katara's voice can be heard begging as politely as she's been taught, "Please put me down, I don't need to be carried in my own home," and there she is, being lifted up high on hundreds of hands, like a seal-surfer on the waves.

They drop her gingerly, salute, and remain in place, silent, as if none of this ever occurred.

Katara, fully dressed in an azure colored, long sleeved dress and leather moccasins, her hair draped around her in perfectly styled waves and half pulled up in an unfamiliar style—and was that makeup she was wearing?—made significant eye contact with Sokka, only to have him nod in return.

The soldiers blinked, and the Water Tribe siblings were gone.

*

They breathe heavily, their backs to the washroom door, bracing it for what they imagine would be forced entry. Only when soldiers' footsteps, eerily in tune, yet seemingly frantic, pass in their undoubted search for the siblings, do they let out a breath and slide down the door to rest.

"Oh my gosh, Sokka, why did you have to get picked by a bunch of loons?" says Katara, wide-eyed. "At least the men are more polite than the women—they practically dragged every girl from our lodge, even servants, from their beds, and threw them into water to wash, scrubbed them half to death, and then immediately had you out and made up." She picked at her hair a little, then rose to check it in a mirror. "Hmm. It's not bad, though. I guess the rumors were right—the Fire Nation is fashionable."

"Is that all you care about, Katara?" yells Sokka dramatically, clutching at his face. "What if they do this when they want me to bed him? Think of my chastity!"

Katara wrinkles her nose, "Ew, Sokka, I don't want to know what you do with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend if I don't like boys!" whines Sokka, reaching over to grab at the hem of her dress. "Save me, Katara! Please, please, please—you _need_ to go with me! I'd die otherwise!"

Katara looks conflicted, then suddenly annoyed, "Hey, just because he's a boy doesn't mean you can't like him—"

"I know, I know, I just _don't _know at the same time, okay?" cries Sokka, face down on the floor, hands gripped like vices on her skirt. Katara shoos him off with one of her moccasins. "Please, Katara, please? I need you to watch my back! These people are crazy!"

His eyes are big and cobalt and pleading, like a fawn's—Katara can't say no. She just helps him get washed up, ties up his hair, and runs through the halls as Sokka yells to distract soldiers to her room, to pack, for him.

*

"I'm losing both of my children?" says Hakoda sadly. He stands tall amongst his personal guard, a block of warriors with white and blue stained faces that made them look like spirits. The occupants of Southern Water Tribe's royal complex lay spread like game pieces over the icy, cliff-like shore that leads to the tribe's main port while several intimidating Fire Nation steam ships loom on the horizon, regurgitating smoke and iron, and an ornate, dragon-encrusted ferry bobs up and down in the harbor. The air, despite the foreign intrusion and perhaps by its own persistence, remains as fresh and clean as the very first snowflake—it is the time of day that the beginnings of sun burns through the cold air of morning like the gentle probes of fingers searching from the other side of a veil, and in the Southern Water Tribe the air remains as frigid as the sun beats down.

Katara's hands are behind her back, holding her pack; she shifts uncomfortably. "I'm just keeping Sokka company, Dad. I need to keep an eye on Sokka, anyway, so that he doesn't disgrace us," she pauses, cocks her head to the side, frowns and adds, "Again."

Hakoda heaves a weary sigh. He makes a waving motion at her, "Fine, fine, go ahead." He stares Sokka straight in the eye, "But Katara comes back to keep me sane."

Katara's mouth opens delightedly; she gushes, "Oh, Daddy, I knew—"

"I wouldn't leave you to them, honey bun," smiles her father tenderly.

Sokka gets between them indignantly. "What about ME?"

"You're a man, son, you can handle yourself."

"You say this to the son you send over to a foreign nation to be gay," says Sokka under his breath, and he winces when Hakoda pulls on his ear.

"You, Sokka, will stay there for a few months, and then you'll be back soon enough. With your little boyfriend, though—Katara will just be back a little earlier. It's a win-win situation," nods Hakoda. He walks forward to the crest of the cliff, squinting at the Fire Nation's prideful navy. He whistles low, nearly smirking, "At least you'll get there in style." He turns back to his son, to his people spread out in a fan behind him, his wolf's head cloak rippling and blocking out the tiny blip of a rising sun.

Sokka stares back, all humor and reluctance gone, something rising like helium in his chest. Katara remains at his side, clutching his hand tighter, tighter.

"Sokka Sialuk, of the Aningan Clan line," Hakoda enunciates slowly, loudly, for all as goldenrod rays surface slowly over his majestic head, "the Southern Tribe has given you _inua_ (soul) and kept you close to its heart. One day, in this very place, you will part from your physical soul and all the rest shall depart to the underworld, but for now we lend you to the Firelands of the Northwest. You are a gift, a treasure to the Fire Nation, but your place is here, amongst the People."

Sokka is soaring.

"We give you now, but your heart still beats within ours'—your return is imminent and true, for never will you leave when you run strong here," Hakoda gestures to his heart, a great round fist closed tight to his chest, and all—including his sister— around Sokka, a legion of blue and white, mimic him. Hakoda beats his chest once, and in tandem his clan follows. "People are a cycle, just as the water we bend runs to ice and ice to water, just as the seas unfurl open arms to re-embrace its glacial brothers when they begin to float and run awry—we have faith that one day, our ancestors will deliver you once more to us, so that the cycle may start again. Believe!" Hakoda's fist rises definitively, and his people stare on in awe, hands still locked to their chests.

"Faith," he bellows, and throws his head back into a deep howl, reverberating through Sokka's skin like a bell, ringing as strong and true as his own blood in his veins. This is the cry of his people. Howls rise up around him, and many hands touch him, push him and Katara forward, away.

"He shall return," say his People, and the cry makes his fingers shake in Katara's. They walk slowly down to the harbor, and glance back, once to see their father heading the pack, his eyes glistening in the sun—proud. "You will return," Sokka can see him mouth, and Sokka raises his club. His People whoop and howl.

The ferry departs.

!!!

A/N: Thank you for reading. Have a nice day. :)


	2. Hello

**Marriage Something.**

_Hello._

!!!

Zuko has animals running up and down his stomach. Azula calls them "butterflies," but he prefers "menagerie"—when was his—gulp—betrothed appearing again? What time was it? Where was he again? Oh, _ancestors_, what was his name?

"Zuzu, you're going to have to stop making those _adorable_ faces, or else you're going to end up _my_ husband instead," says Azula, bored, lying on her back on Zuko's splendid crimson bedspread, both her legs in the air.

Zuko takes the time to quell his thoughts in order to muster an appropriately horrified face.

"You stopped, didn't you?" offers Azula off-handedly, but she sounds like she'd much rather be selling cabbage. Her legs flail around a bit and she flips herself on her stomach to inspect her nails. She is wearing her hair down in a style she hates, with the top half twisted into an elegant bun that houses her tiny flame tiara; two single curls frame her delicately feline face amongst a waterfall of black tresses. Her robe is a brutish, heavy thing made of enough garnet silks and satins to trade with a small nation that, with the help of many ladies in waiting, manages to conform to her petite frame alluringly (but it's horribly stiff and doesn't fold; even as Azula rolls around, the fabric never pools). When she stands, the bell-sleeves touch the floor; when she walks, the train trails behind her for a foot or so.

Azula is the only person Zuko knows, besides his mother, that is able to wear something like that without burning it to shreds. She calls it finesse, but Zuko would rather call it something of an ironic brand of self-control.

Even so, Zuko is barely any better—bunched up in a scarlet-colored, high-necked silk jacket that goes to his knees and ties in individual, oriental knots all along the front and loose black pants, he feels and looks like a confused, walking trophy. His hair, which usually reaches his upper-back, is knotted at the top of his head, unruly strands slicked into place, and adorned with that accursed flame hairpiece that makes his head itch when he moves. His shoes look like slippers and they curve up at the end. Urgh. He looks like a girl.

When he tells Azula this, she laughs rather cruelly and says, "Well, I guess that means you'll never top," but Zuko doesn't get it.

And then he does and his mother has to hold him back from burning off Azula's hair.

Zuko takes a seat next to his sister and picks at his sleeve. The material shines a delicate honey color in the light.

"Azula?" he says.

"Mmm?" replies his rather inattentive sister, who has switched her attention from her nails to her lipstick.

"What if I hate him?" Zuko asks tentatively, in his most muted voice, and yet when her eyes flicker to his, his jaw is set.

Mid-lipstick swipe, Azula stops and flips her tube up her sleeves. She looks her brother square in the eye and says, flippantly, "So what? He's supposed to be 'your only,' so if you hate him, it's sure to die down. The soothsayers haven't been wrong about much, and I doubt this is one of them. You're not_ that_ important, Zuzu." She flips onto her back once more and flicks at her hair. "More likely the thing that you'll have to do if he can't cooperate with you is to whip him into line. The little ice cube won't be able to do much. I heard he isn't even a waterbender."

Zuko blanches at this. He had hoped that his mate would be a bender so that they could at least relate in that respect, but now Zuko actually had to _talk _to the guy about something besides bending styles, bending moves, and, if either of those grow stale, the history of bending. Ancestors know, Zuko could barely get to know turtleducks if they didn't come up to him. "But he's a warrior, too," Zuko reassures himself aloud. "You can't really go wrong with that." Martial arts styles, martial arts moves, and the history of martial arts, then. That should last them about a decade, if Zuko plays it right. He figures menial snippets of conversation will worm themselves in there somewhere, too, but that most definitely will be the bulk. He's sure that a good ten years will give him time to figure out the next topic. Maybe bending.

Azula snickers, "Try some impersonations on him, I'm sure he'll love that," and Zuko flicks her forehead. His stomach still hurts—he's not sure whether this feeling is anticipation or dread—so he excuses himself to the washroom as Azula spreads herself out on the warmth he leaves behind.

* * *

In the washroom down the hall, there are several fountain-sinks and tubs lined with wax lotuses and fresh pink peony petals. The décor is fashioned to please fair maidens, what with the beautiful reed-parchment tapestries and screens, and the luscious red hanging lanterns—and we can't forget the rock garden adorning one corner.

Zuko's a boy, so he scoops out the petals out of the sink and dumps them on the floor, accidentally knocks over a votive, and nearly rips a lantern with his headpiece.

"Damn it!" He swears as he burns his finger when clumsily trying to pick up the fallen votive. Stupid thing, why in the world would anyone want a dragon's eye for a candle holder? It's just creepy, especially at night.

The window on the far left side is open, and the summery air of the Fire Nation roams in and out, clinking through the wind chimes set up along the bright red curtains. Zuko can smell the change in the air, the coming of a foreign presence—the tinge of charcoal and fiery zest is muted by an edge of chill and animal skins. The flame inside him flinches a tad at the presence, but he quells it by breathing deep the other scents of home, for feast preparations are underway. Dumplings, sizzling lotus root, chilies sautéed amongst bell pepper and tender beef—they are the food makings of a festival, and more than anything, as the young boy rears up inside him, he is tempted to beg the chefs for a bite.

But his stomach sinks when he realizes once again the cause for the festivities—in less than an hour, he is meant to meet the boy that he'll be chained to for the rest of his life.

Sighing, he flips on the sink and dips his hands in the cool water. Perspiration is already building along his neck, and the steady beat of the water against his knuckles soothes the beating of his heart. He cannot imagine a life with a wife, let alone a husband. For years, he's never truly been interested in relationships—he had his mother, his uncle, and his sister to keep him company (his father was hardly in the Fire Nation, as he was often handling diplomatic affairs—thank the ancestors, as he blanched to think of how he would have grown up under the weight of Ozai's intimidating disapproval). Besides, mastering firebending and swordsmanship with his sister had become a main focus, along with his studies. He was the heir to the throne after all, and could not disappoint, even if from his very birth it was expected of his future sister to bear the next heir, as he was destined to a—boy.

"Ughhh," says Zuko, and he feels like dipping his face into the water and blowing bubbles, an unusual habit he'd picked up from hanging out with turtleducks. Well, until his mother made him stop because Dear Ancestors, Zuko, don't you know what turtleducks _do_ in the water?

His hands are covering his eyes now, and he peeks between the fingers at a plain looking glass positioned above the sink. His hands come down at his side very deliberately, and he takes in his face. He comes to the conclusion that it is just a face—his eyes are gold and small, like a good fourth of the population in these parts, but nothing like his mother's, which shine and gleam with her every action. His nose is just a nose, straight and curved up a little at the end, his eyebrows are a little thick and he has the beginnings of frown lines. His mother calls them dimples, but frowning now at himself, he has no doubt that they are, indeed, frown lines. His ears are a little big, too, when his hair is pulled away from them and – urgh, his hair is always scruffy unless one of his hand servants combs it to death.

Looking at himself now, he cannot help but think that there's nothing particularly likable about this face, so why in the world would a boy fall in love with it? He'd never even known a _girl_ to. Soothsayers are supposed to always be correct, chants his pompous tradition, but what the hell is he supposed to do in the meantime, while their prophecy settles itself into correctness? Wait for his imminent lust for men to set in?

He shakes his head and takes a seat on the side of a tub. Yes, that's exactly what he's supposed to do.

* * *

Azula has a key and Zuko doesn't. Click, click.

Some little ice cube is going to woo her brother? Well, wouldn't a private meeting be much more intimate; wouldn't that spark something? They'd be much better off.

* * *

Iroh is tired of taking his little brother's place, sometimes, but other times he can't help but be grateful that he is here to witness his nephew (and yes, even his little ingrate of a niece) grow up in Ozai's absence.

He can remember the look on Zuko's face the day he unwrapped the broadswords, how he smiled brighter than the polished steel could shine and tried to pick one up, but dropped it because he was too small. He remembers Ursa's face, too, and the sting of her slap on his elbow—What the _hell_ are you giving my seven-year old?

He can remember Zuko's flops and his fears of being burned; he can remember the light in his eyes when he produced his first flame. He can remember the frustration when Azula cartwheeled past him in skill, producing blue flame, and the hurt in his eyes as she sneered.

He can remember when Zuko first realized that his betrothed was a Water Tribesman— he can recall how the tiny Zuko, wide-eyed and happy, drew a picture of the person he was supposed to marry: big blue eyes set on a too-small, androgynous face, smeared with light brown crayon, riding on a colossal mass of poorly constructed blue water.

And now, another memory: Zuko stepping forward into adulthood, meeting his betrothed to begin the relationship that will define the rest of his life.

Iroh takes a long sip of tea, staring mildly into its caramel-colored depths before taking another deep draft. He is seated in the first formal sitting area of the Fire Nation palace upon a well-cushioned chair with a back lined in gold etchings. Several feast dishes are stretched out in front of him upon a beauteous red silk-cloth lined table, but whenever he tries to filch a piece of pork or a steamy bun, the utterly silent servant next to him whaps his knuckles with a pair of chopsticks. Chef's assistants and maids filter through the room, polishing things last minute, brining in and rearranging food.

Ursa is due to show up any minute with the children—well, Zuko hardly counted as one now, as he is nearing his nineteenth birthday. Idly, Iroh fiddles with his cup, watching the maids as they bend and reach, and bend and—

He smiles wide, and the chopsticks bat at his fingers.

"What?" He cries indignantly to the servant who, in her splendid silken robes and tinkling jade hairpin, looks rather like a statue or a vase. She makes a movement—the first he's seen her do all day—to stick her tongue out at him.

He laughs, belly-deep, and takes another sip of tea.

"What's so funny, Iroh? Nothing I'd like to see, I'd hope," says the folding screen behind him, and from the thick black lines of calligraphy and pictograms steps Ursa, in all her splendor. Kohl lines her eyes, her lips are the color of rouge, and the flame hairpiece that she wears is complimented by egret plumes. She looks ten years younger, and Iroh tells her so ingratiatingly.

She slaps him mildly on the wrist, "Oh, Iroh, flirting will do nothing to get food in your mouth faster."

"You know me too well," he says, laughing and setting down his teacup. The armor he wears has the signet of a general etched into the chest—it has been recently polished, and smells of cleaning alcohols.

Azula, who has just stepped from behind the screen as well, "ahems" and leans her head down to touch her cheek to her uncle's, a familiar greeting. "Hello, Uncle," she says formally, and Iroh can see the glimmer of mischief in her eye. It's rather alarming.

"Azula," he says warmly, standing up and taking her by the hand to spin her around. Her perfectly cinched and elegant dressings make no movement, almost predictably, and the ridiculousness of women's fashions nearly makes him laugh. "You're becoming quite the lady. Soon, Zuko will have to fry any of your suitors."

Azula seats herself elegantly and quips, in her most breezy, matter-of-fact tone, "Oh, I assure you, I am more than capable of doing that myself." She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

Ursa and Iroh exchange glances—Azula's coldness is often dismissed as inherent of her character, which makes her warmer moments cherished all the more. They shrug, lightly, and take seats as well.

Ursa is tall for a woman, and her height, even sitting, soars above both Iroh's and her daughter's. She says, conversationally, to Iroh, "And when are the Water Tribesmen allotted to arrive?"

"Within the hour," says Iroh pleasantly, and he sips his tea.

"Hmm," says Ursa.

The servant with the jade hairpin had left to help someone carry in the roasted pig.

All three, Azula included, eye the food.

* * *

Sokka stretches out his gangly limbs and gives an exaggerated yawn. The air here is warm on his skin, and he has already stripped off most of his furs and is wearing only his blue cotton jerkin. The sun here is nowhere near as fierce as the sun back home, where one had to be careful of it shining off the ice, lest he had forgotten to wear darkened whale tallow under his eyes to avoid day-blindness. In contrast, this sun was warm and yellow, full and playful, beating down upon the lush greenery of the Fire Nation's islands and red-clothed subjects.

Katara is lounging in the sun on the deck of the ship in a sleeveless blue dress with a white fur trim; her hair lay down and hanging about her in sheets of dark chestnut waves, in a style she'd learned from the Fire Nation hand servants that continued to wait on her. She is stunning, but very few soldiers who by pass dare to stop and stare after the incident from a few days ago, involving a gawker and Sokka's fist.

"Are we almost there?" Sokka says while eying most people around him poisonously. Katara's eyes are closed, so she pays no notice.

"Alm—"

"All passengers, we've reached the Ember Island Harbor!" cries a young cabin-boy with a loud, jangling bell as the ship lurches to a tentative stop. He walks up hesitantly to the foreigners.

"Water Tribesman sir and lady, we've arrived. Please grab any immediate belongings, and the rest will be shipped to the palace later. You'll be leaving on the first rickshaw," he says, and then looks Sokka in the face. "You'll like our prince. He's very kind to me—sometimes he'll let me come inside the gardens to play with turtleducks! But you have to talk to him first, then he'll be nice." He smiles widely at them and turns heel to notify the other soldiers of their destinations.

Sokka is blushing, and Katara tells him so. "It's embarrassing, Katara," he says, head down and cheeks burning, "that all these people know I'm just here to make out with their stupid prince!"

Katara giggles and hits him on the back. "Man up," she laughs, "or you'll end up the bride." She devolves into hysterics, slapping her knees, until Sokka yanks on her hair, which she responds to by bending a splash of water into his face from her canteen.

"Katara!" Sputter.

"Don't pull my hair!" Punch.

"I'll pull it if you're being a jerk!" Yank.

"Augh! Don't make me bruise you before you meet your _husband_—"

Splatter.

"_Ahem._"

The Water Tribe siblings look up from their strange wrestling position to see a man with the signet for a lieutenant emblazoned on his chest. He is staring at them rather awkwardly.

They straighten immediately, with Katara magicking all her water away in the flip of a finger, including what had made Sokka's clothes wet.

"Yes, sir?" Katara cautions sheepishly.

"My name is Lieutenant Yao. I'm here to accompany you to the capital," says the lieutenant, scratching his cheek. "We're ready to transport you now, if you could just gather your things."

"Of course!" says Sokka, perking up, taking Katara by the hand and dragging her away to their quarters.

The lieutenant can hear them squabbling until they disappear from sight.

* * *

The Fire Nation is beautiful, in all its foreign charm. There are people sprawling across its lush and green flats and hills; there are people in the towns and in the fields and everywhere, everywhere, there is laughter and robust families of three to ten, gossiping and playing and eating—to a Southern Watertribesman, this is an overwhelming experience. The tight-knit cluster of home plays no part in this new surrounding, as the pieces here are a part of a much larger whole. The air is sweet here, like a tablet of red bean candy on your tongue, teasing your nose and making your mouth water. Water runs bluer than in the Antarctic south, but no cleaner.

The Fire Nation capital, however, is placed far above this, in what can only be described as a giant volcano.

The rickshaw that they climbed into at the Harbor City not two hours before is hooded with silks, thick and ornate, painted red and carved out of mahogany; much to Katara's chagrin it is lofted high upon the shoulders of six to eight, well-browned servant-men, each sporting an equally officious, tall red hat. The lieutenant accompanies Sokka and Katara in the rickshaw—he seems to have died and been reincarnated a tour guide, for at every turn there is something he is pointing out with great vigor and emphasis, as if he were the cause of it all. Once through the sprawling jungles of architectural wonders and into the capital city walls, he seems eager to talk until he explodes.

"And there's Second-Governor Fang's manor—there's his no-good son, too—Fang Jianguo, you get off that wall before you break your head like an egg! The second-governor has a daughter too, quite a dull thing, she is. Did you know—ah, and there are the steps that lead to the Thousand Words Temple," here he pauses briefly to bow curtly at the neck, his hands pressed together in front of his nose, "that you take your prayers to before festival times, or just when you need to speak to someone. And there, over that marketplace— the fish one— there is the great dragon's head of the palace walls." Here, he looks significantly at Sokka, and Katara nods constantly, enraptured by the culture shock.

Sokka is nodding off. It's too hot here and he's beginning to sweat through his jerkin. The air buzzes around him like fireflies, and the chatter of nobles are of no worldly interest. He closes his eyes and wonders why this place is so blandly organized, why there are only the flashily dressed in this Crater that serves as a home for the elite, why there is so much smoke and pollution and why in the world this place is not home.

Katara eyes him and jumps to the confused and flustered Lieutenant Yao's aid as he flounders for a way to respond to Sokka's seeming indifference. "Lieutenant, sir, forgive him. It has been a long trip, and we are a long way from home," she says, placating, inwardly cursing Sokka for being a butt. Even so, a smidge of worry works itself into her veins. How is Sokka faring with all this?

Lieutenant Yao, unaffected, rattles on until they reach the great, yawning gates of the Fire Nation Palace.

* * *

Oh, dear ancestors. He's locked in the bathroom.

Zuko can't imagine a worse situation. He's also very sweaty, which exacerbates his temper until he can feel his ears coloring.

He shakes and rattles the door, slams himself against it, calls feebly for his mother—to no avail. Firebending is not an option at any point in time, not in his mother's privately designed washroom and especially not in these horrendous clothes. He's certainly scared to miss a meeting with his—cringe—beloved, but he is much more scared of his mother and her ability to inflict bodily pain.

So Zuko jumps out the window.

Well, he tries, but his clothes weigh him down so much that he can't fit his rear end through, much to his mortification, and he'd much, much rather be stuck in a bathroom than hanging out a window, so he pries himself out.

He waits, paces, curses, then settles huffily in one of the gigantic tubs. The basin is soothingly cool in the sticky summer air, so he curls up, stares at the ceiling and sighs, hoping.

* * *

"Majesty—the guests have arrived. Shall we send them to wash up before holding counsel? They have endured an arduous journey."

Ursa's head is turned curiously away, and a napkin is pressed to her delicate lips. She waves the servant away, nodding. She calls after him, as an afterthought, sounding as though her mouth is full, "Where is Zuko? Go fetch him for me, dear. He should be out here with us, or he'll miss his dinner." Aside, to Azula, she mutters with great difficulty, "Cold feet."

Azula's lips, a perfectly uniform crimson, curl into a smile with a hint of teeth.

* * *

Sokka is rudely awakened by a splash of water to his face. Katara's unforgiving hand shakes him and she gives him a reprimanding glare. "Up," she says, "we're about to enter the palace courtyard."

Sokka mutters to himself and obeys.

The courtyard is splendid, emblazoned with red buds and greenery that had only been viewed in tapestries back home in their longhouses. The bleached granite sheets that make up the geometric designs on the ground are flattering, but a tad stiff in contrast to the warm fur carpets and leather flooring of home, but as the ground gives way to warmer cobblestone, Katara cannot help but imagine herself traipsing along them without shoes in the warm evening air. The beautiful, open hallways that line the sides of the yard are plain, but tastefully so, and seem to lead into several sitting and tea rooms.

Lieutenant Yao and Sokka's personal horde of Fire Nation soldiers (who had, much to his horror, reappeared at his side in what can only be described as teleportation as he stepped foot outside of the rickshaw) led them strongly to the heart of the place, until they reached a flight of grand steps as wide as a longhouse all on its own. Katara was floored, and when she told the Fire Nation soldiers so (Sokka was a mute, oddly enough, so she vied for their attentions instead), they picked her up until she punched one of them. They headed up the steps, a motley crew of dark-skinned and light, armor and furs, with Lieutenant Yao yammering the entire way. The Fire Nation horde gasped and nodded appropriately.

Sokka wants to go to bed, really, and even though he is more than willing to uphold his father's wishes, he supposes he doesn't have to act happy about it until he meets the Fire Nation prince he's betrothed to—what was his name again? Su-something. He wrinkles his nose as they reach the stairs' landing, headed by an enormous red and black, gold-dragon engraved door. Really, these people had the flashiest taste.

Legions of servants bow low along the ground at his sides as they enter a sort of humongous foyer, dressed exclusively in muted pink and red robes. Lieutenant Yao and the Horde seem to melt into the background as the front row of servants rise and, without looking Sokka and Katara in the eyes, gently lead them down opposite hallways. Briefly, the Water Tribe siblings glance over their shoulders and make eye contact; Katara smiles and waves with two fingers: _Good luck._

_

* * *

_

"Milord," says the servant, light-skinned and dark haired, with a single gold earring (round, like a hanging globe, and spinning with his movements), "the washroom is through these curtains here—oh, dear, someone seems to have locked it, I'll take care of that, milord. Take all the time you need. One of your bags will be delivered shortly, so you will have your spare clothes… but, milord, do remember that Princess Azula requested that you wash here specifically, and that other rooms are off-limits until the Prince himself introduces you to them. This is the Prince's wing, after all." And with a flourishing bow and an earring jangle, Sokka is left alone in front of a delicately embroidered reddish curtain.

Stretching his neck side to side, he cracks his knuckles and rotates his wrists. It's been a long journey; time to unwind with a nice bath.

The door opens soundlessly, as if the hinges are greased, and a brief, warm wind kicks up and flickers about his ponytail. It, like so many things here, smells sweet, something he needs time to get used to.

The first thing he notices when he steps into the room is that this really shouldn't be the washroom in a Prince's private wing. There are too many pictures of lotuses and bathing women, too many flower petals littering the ground, and is that a rock garden?

The second thing he notices is that there is someone asleep in the bathtub.

When he first realizes it, it nearly scares him half to death—he would have given a high-pitched scream had his vocal cords not frozen in place. He wonders, briefly, if the person is dead, until he realizes that the person is breathing, and allows himself a breath himself.

A knock interrupts any further action, and he meanders back to the door, opening it and finding one of his sealskin packs neatly placed outside, with no one accompanying it. Creepy. He debates yelling out for someone to help him, there's someone in his tub, as if the person were an over-sized fly in his soup, but decides against it due to the sheer quiet around the halls. He decides to deal with it himself.

Walking back into the room and keeping the door flung wide open to let the warm, sugary breeze run through like the gait of tiny deer moseying through, he stops to examine this person— this boy, actually— in the tub.

He's an average Fire Nation boy, with a little furrow in his brow. His hair is in a topknot atop his head with shorter strands falling out of it, askew. Spread out in the sun as he is, he still looks like he's barely gotten any sun most of his life, perhaps not in a bad way, but certainly not in an entirely good one, either. The light illuminates his face in a way that makes it innocent, but not overtly so—he seems to have dark circles, too, but they give his face character. He's dressed as ornately as this room is designed, in swathes of silk and satin that seem vastly uncomfortable. Sweat seems to have dotted his temples, and Sokka understands that he has been here for a while.

The very last thing he notices, however, is the flame-shaped headpiece clutched precariously in slack fingers, indicative to Sokka (who, despite all who make protest otherwise, is not a cultureless dolt) that this young man is Fire Nation royalty. Why he's sleeping in the bathroom, no one knows, because shouldn't he have some goose-feather something or other to rest in?

Sokka kneels next to the boy, his arms folded along the side of the tub, and he looks. Perhaps, by some twist of fate that Sokka does not have the patience to believe in, this is his betrothed. While sleeping in bathtubs may be a peculiarity, at least he is a tad more colorful and a little less upright than his stuffy surroundings and cultural background suggest. If this is his betrothed, perhaps if he stayed soft and vulnerable like this forever, Sokka could love him.

Sokka has had many crushes and many failed attempts at relationships—he is, after all, a seventeen year boy possessing what his sister and father often referred to as "an oafish sort of charm," but many girls, despite being enamored initially, eventually tired of his antics and goofy, occasionally abrasive convictions, and he grew tired, too, of their lack of wit.

Sokka isn't quite sure what he wants in a relationship (who knows at his age, anyway?), but right here in this room, thousands of miles away from his snowy homeland, being in the Fire Nation doesn't seem so torturous. He feels that, perhaps, if there is this sort of comfortable atmosphere between him and his betrothed, maybe being engaged can be a reprieve from a good long stay in what has so far demonstrated itself as a hot, sticky, gaudy sort of Hell.

As Sokka contemplates, the boy stirs. With Sokka's face so close to his, Sokka can see the snap of his eyes, amber-gold, as they lock on his own.

He also sees the pillar of flame rushing toward his face, and scrabbles backward to avoid it, only to get nipped by a solid right hook. Holy crap.

"Are you crazy?!" shouts Sokka in alarm, his voice high and wild, his hands on his cheek. He gesticulates far after this is said, his blue eyes open wider than they've ever been. So much for vulnerable.

But, then again, as he stares full-on at this strange Fire Nation prince, he sees the open eyes full of shock and a tinge of panic, an awkward self consciousness drowned by regret, and a sudden wash of anger—perhaps vulnerable is a viable description.

"Who are you?" shouts the prince in a voice husky with sleep. He clears his throat, sits up higher in his wash basin and starts anew, "Why are you in here—this is my private washroom! Don't you know that this is—my, ah, private washroom?!"

"You said that."

"Shut up, intruder!" The boy draws close to him by leaning out of the tub, wisps of his dark hair falling into his face, hands alight as smoke streams out his nostrils. He reminds Sokka of a little dragon. "Who sent you? Why are you here? No one but servants are allowed in my quarters! Unauthorized entry is punishable by—um, by death!"

Sokka puts up two hands, placating, telling him he is unarmed. "Calm down. Ancestors! If I was an enemy, you'd obviously have an easy time getting rid of me, considering you nearly singed my sac."

The boy's eyes harden. "Who are you affiliated with?" he demands with great force. "You better not be part of that stupid fanclub—"

Sokka bursts out laughing. "You have a fanclub?! You're too little to have a fanclub!"

His Fire Nation companion is not amused; in fact, it seems he is trying to be all the more intimidating by the second (which is, in all honesty, rather hard, as he is still sitting in a rather diminutive wash basin). With one finger, he produces a lick of flame that breezes maliciously past Sokka's face and singes a few hairs off his wolf-tail.

"Gah!" cries Sokka as he stares at the boy incredulously. At the boy's deliberately slow raise of a hand, he yelps and ducks, covering his face with his forearms. He shouts, muffled, "Princess—Ah, Ah-soo-luh sent me here specifically! I was told not to go anywhere else."

The boy looks floored by this. His jaw slackens a little, and he curses. He takes a furtive glance at Sokka in his strange blue outfit, and he goes white while his ears simultaneously color. With what seems like great difficulty, he extracts himself from the tub and, after great deliberation, hesitantly gives Sokka a hand up as he dusts himself off.

"You're a Water Tribesman," he says, as if he is just realizing this for the very first time. Sokka raises an eyebrow at him.

"And you're a Fire Nation prince—a crazy one, but one all the same," retorts Sokka as he bitterly palms his bright red cheek and motions to the fallen headpiece, shaped exclusively as a lick of flame.

The boy scowls briefly at him, but he trudges on awkwardly, "A Southern Water Tribesman…?"

Sokka smiles at this proudly. "Why, yes, I am."

"And are you here accompanying the Prince?" the boy demands.

"Nope," says Sokka, with a bland look.

The boy colors further as he stares at the "duh" vibe Sokka is exuding until he grimaces, registering the utmost stupidity of his every action thus far. In a small voice, he says, "Are you the Prince?"

Sokka's smile is a watt brighter, this time. "Yes, I am."

The boy flees out the open washroom door.

* * *

Zuko knew, in the pit of his stomach, that one day he would nearly attack his betrothed and make a complete fool of himself in the process. He just knew it would happen, and if he didn't bring itself about all on its own, that Azula would have a hand in it.

Azula, that conniving little witch.

Zuko wanted to sink into a hole and stay there until his betrothed thought he had died and went back home. He wanted to hide until this blue-eyed, dark-skinned boy forgot his face, so that he may reintroduce himself without the painful awkwardness of "Hey, sorry. So, remember the time I nearly singed your face off?" or "How's that bruise doing? You know, from when I _punched you in the face._"

A hand catches his arm. Crap. Zuko needs to practice dramatic exits—walk faster, next time.

"Hey, kid," says the Water Tribesman warily, "not so fast."

"I'm not a kid," grinds out Zuko, but he stops quietly. He feels small and cornered by embarrassment and a sickening feeling that he has dishonored something, somewhere, if not just his dignity.

The tanned boy gently spins him around with his forearm. Zuko can see him scrutinizing his face while he refuses to look at him. Instead, he looks at lined fingers on his arm, gripping feather-light, almost tenderly.

"So, you're what, the little brother of the guy I'm supposed to marry, right?" Royal cobalt eyes are completely serious when Zuko glances up in surprise.

Zuko proceeds to see red.

"N-No!" he sputters. "Fool! Idiot—simpleton! I _am_ your betrothed!"

The Water Tribesman seems slightly caught off-guard by this, but a spark of recognition runs along his face, settling into something that Zuko cannot name. He smirks a horridly tan smirk.

"Are you sure? Because you don't really seems up to the standards of the greatest Prince on the planet, you know. This is kind of something you have to fit."

Oh, now he's just trying to piss Zuko off.

Zuko sticks out his hand suddenly, causing the other boy to flinch, much to Zuko's satisfaction. "Sun Zuko," he says, trying to be short, but sounding generally murderous instead.

His hand is taken tentatively, then crushed in a fierce shake. "Sokka. Ah, Sokka Sialuk."

As the handshake draws to a close and Zuko's anger begins to dissolve, they stare at each other awkwardly. 'What now?' panics Zuko inwardly. For what is not the first time in his life, but perhaps one of the more significant milestones, he is mortified into silence.

This "Sokka" person decides to take this situation up in his own hands, Zuko can see, because he has a steeliness in his eye that Zuko feels he can come to admire.

* * *

_'Talk to him first, then he'll be nice,'_ says the ghostly voice of the cabin boy in his head. So Sokka does what he does best.

He tells this awkward little prince a joke. He, after all, is the funny guy in this equation; he can break the ice, he's sure of it. The Fire Nation prince, this "Sun Zuko" character, will laugh and be amazed at Sokka's stunning wit and they, automatically, will be friends.

It starts, innocently, with "So, you wanna hear a joke?" and a goofy grin—in return, he receives a disarmed (or is it alarmed? Desperate?) smile, and a brief nod.

Sokka tells Zuko his joke proudly. The contents will not be inserted here, and must be left to the reader's imagination, for they are largely insignificant. Zuko's reaction, however, should take the stage.

Sokka opens his eyes (having closed them in pleasure at the final punch line) to what appears to be a vague cricket noise.

Zuko appears ill, almost as if he is on the border of suffering cardiac arrest. His golden eyes are wide with incomprehension and what one could only guess to be great amounts of bodily stress.

'My ancestors,' thinks Zuko, 'the soothsayers have given me a moron for a husband. What did I ever do to them, and how will I ever repent?'

Sokka feels unsure, suddenly, until Zuko snaps out of it to take him by the hand. "Come on," he says, "we should be getting to the feast." His voice sounds strained.

"You didn't like my joke?" says Sokka, allowing himself to be led.

Zuko doesn't pull his punches. "No."

Sokka frowns as he swipes out a hand to grab his sealskin pack on the way. "But I'm hilarious."

Zuko stiffens and switches his stride. "No, you're not."

Sokka's frown grows deeper. "Everyone thinks so."

"They were laughing at you."

"At my jokes, yeah."

"No, _at_ you."

"_With _me, you mean?"

"_No._"

They bicker this way until a servant at stops them at the door to the main entry hall, where the feast awaits. She shoos Zuko back in the other direction with a few hand servants to fix up the two of them—"My prince, whatever happened to your hair?" (there are significant glances between him and Sokka here)— and Zuko does an about face and drags Sokka with him. When questioned why he was still holding his hand, Zuko replies, shortly, that Sokka is a moron, and would embarrass him otherwise.

On the very peripheral of Sokka's mind, beneath the outrage and the insulted pride, there is a millimeter of his heart that likes the feeling of their hands intertwined, but under the landslide of "Wow! You sure are a jerk," there doesn't seem to be any room for recognition for such a tiny, flighty thought.

!!!

**A/N:** Zuko doesn't have a scar. I didn't particularly know how to add it in, anyway, as this is an AtLA world in a time of peace, and I wanted to develop a family aspect amongst the Fire Nation that not a lot of fanfiction sees. Therefore, Ozai is absent, because how is family family with a lunatic at the helm? In his place, Iroh and Ursa manage the home-front.

When I'm characterizing Zuko, I tend to think of the Zuko trying to tell the Gaang that he isn't evil anymore—that's the awkward boy I'm focusing on, because it's obviously a side of his personality that would have been more overt from the start had he not be, um, traumatized.

Haha, "Sun" is a Chinese last name that I read somewhere was the surname of royalty, at one point. No matter how true this is or not, I saw "Sun" as the most ironic, beautiful last name the Fire Nation Royal family could have in the whole entire world.

"Aningan" is the name of the god of the moon in the Inuit language, or it just means "god of the moon," if my googling is correct. That is the name of Sokka's clan, exclusively his family line, so the Southern Water Tribe is currently under the rule of the Aningan Clan. Their clan name is entirely separate from their surname, "Sialuk," which means "raindrops."

Questions are welcome; I'll answer them to the best of my ability, as I'm—uh, making it up as I go. And, yes, Natsuko-chan, Aang will be in this, though maybe not how you'd expect. :)

This story is mostly for my own enjoyment, but still, thank you all for coming. :)


	3. Awkward

**Marriage Something**

_Awkward._

It is rather like a dream, Zuko thinks, as the servants mill around him to fix his ruffled appearance—a horrible, horrible dream in which he not only succeeded in completely humiliating himself in front of the boy he's supposed to be married to, but in which he managed to be late to his own banquet as well. Zuko is never late. He prides himself in punctuality, in discipline, but no matter how hard he tries, things always seem to go wrong at the most important time. This is the meeting that he has imagined for the better part of his young life; more often than not, he has been harped on by his elders, by officious soothsayers, by even his own mother to sit straight, to eat politely, to reign in his temper and pride to remain properly diplomatic to his future husband's already deemed off the wall ideas (of course, he's a Water Tribesman, for ancestor's sake)—all their efforts, dashed against the wall of a flowery bathroom, all because he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and had too much of his father's temper.

Zuko reconsiders his life thus far: training, education, a sad little finishing school that taught him to keep a book balanced on his head while he walked up and down stairs… His head tips a little in defeat once he realizes he's been groomed to be the girl. Fuck.

But this Water Tribesman prince—curse him! Curse him and his damned cockiness and his stupidity, curse his stupid big blue eyes and his stupid almost flat-footed walk, curse his grating sense of humor! Twenty minutes with him and Zuko wanted to take him by the ankles and throw him in a bush. Zuko knows that this Sokka Sialuk (and Sialuk? Didn't Water Tribesman have no surnames?) will be waiting for him once he leaves his quarters, because after belatedly realizing that he was holding this fool's hand for far too long, he'd sent him off to go wash up with his most well-to-do servants just so Sokka couldn't see how flustered he'd gotten at touching him.

A pat on his hand awakens him from his musing; servants in the Fire Nation Palace seemed more like family to him, now, than slaves (he can't saw the same for Azula), as they have been waiting on him since he can remember. In all honesty, occasionally he has wondered at the informality of some of their actions and how this would be perceived by say, his father, but to be even more honest, he doesn't give a damn. Hopefully this Water Tribesman isn't cruel either, and will respect them as he does. The servants lead him away, and as he passes by the vanity he wonders just how they seem to be able to do impossible and make him more than presentable once more—secretly he must say he admires this quality. Without these loyal servants, the Fire Nation Palace, and especially his quarters, would not carry the same regal finesse, undoubtedly.

Sokka Sialuk is there, as expected, his pack no longer with him and his change of clothes a much better alternative to his traveling ones, yet not what he'd expect of a Water Tribesman. His torso is now robed in a dark brown shirt with a cloth over his shoulders that flows like a pancho, covered in geometric blue patterns that goes all down it in mazes of rectangles and lines. Small hanging adornments of furs and foxtails make the pancho's edging and flow into a light, furry hood along the back. Around his neck is a fine ivory hook. His pants are a leathery black, loose and comfortable—perhaps so much that Zuko glows with envy at the thought of his own uncomfortable, trophy clothing. Moccasins of a matching brown are on his feet, and his hair is no longer in that same wolf-tail style that he'd seen on so many other Water Tribe diplomats, but down, and parts of the ends lay heavy with beads. Strange, foreign blue and white markings, much more sparse than the traditional warpaint, are one his face, a strange downward peak on his forehead and two lines of white and blue along his cheekbones.

Overall, he looks a great deal more presentable than Zuko would've ever imagined a fool to look. Maybe that is disappointment welling in his chest, but he takes care to remember that while foreign, this boy, too, is a prince.

Sokka is leaning back against the hall drapery, his arms crossed across his chest. Coolly, he looks Zuko up and down and turns to accompany him as his servants suddenly become a formation behind him. He looks ahead and says nothing.

Zuko wonders if this fool has a "Prince" mode, and tries his best to paste on this façade as well. After all, _this is it._ Goodbye, single life (did he ever have one?)—this is your fiancé now, Sun Zuko. After the earlier hijinks, he can't help but welcome this heavy feeling of formality, the one he'd envisioned all along.

* * *

The feast is glorious, if Iroh is to say so himself, and he let every server and servant know with a jolly roar of approval. Discreetly, they would attempt to inch the bottles of rice wine that formed a semicircle around his table setting away from his loose palms, only to be interrupted by well-timed, almost jollier compliments. They'd rush away then, little mice caught in the proverbial cookie jar, and Iroh would knock back a few more tiny sake shots and go on about the size of his cup in comparison to all he could drink.

Ursa is unaware of the food rimming her mouth, and even if she were aware, she is trying to maintain dignity and poise, as if the red sauce is a new, fashionable lipstick. Azula picks at the food that she, too, had whisked on her plate in the heated moment of sudden hunger that struck the royal family some time ago. However, now, her hunger had waned to disinterest and boredom, following the direction of most things in her life, as of course, there was nothing to capture the utmost interest of a princess as dynamic and stylish as she.

A small commotion on the other side of the dining chamber doors captures her attentions. The heavy red and gold door is open just a smidge, enough for her to see the pink-clothed back of a servant and—ah—a flash of blue. A tendril of excitement works its way through her veins at the sight. The show is about to begin shortly. She pushes her plate away.

* * *

Sokka is, inwardly, freaking the fuck out. All he wants is to get this over with, to go back and hide in his room in the Water Tribe, and never have to talk to this Prince again, even if they are married. And if he can't have that, then he might as well just get this silly dinner over with, hide in his new _Fire Nation_ room, and pretend that the other boy is just some walking attachment that he has to spend the rest of his life with, but not have to communicate with. He tries his best to remain composed, saying nothing as the little jerk walks out and sizes him up, and turning to walk next to him as the servile little things behind the jerk do just as they're supposed to.

The banquet hall's doors are now familiar to him, and the area is saturated with the scents of delicious foreign foods. As they creak open before him and this little Fire Nation Prince, they give an almost great yawn, and Sokka can hear in that noise his freedom being eaten away. But livery awaits him, with jolly servers milling about with steaming plates—Sokka can feel his mouth water, but he swallows harshly at another sight: the Sun family, just three individuals, at a majestic table at the head of the hall, their backdrop a beautifully painted silk screen. The man all the way to the left, fat and short but healthy, waves jovially and smiles wide, his little eyes taking in the sight of the two betrothed finally together. Sokka knows that this is Iroh, the brother of the Firelord, the widely successful general known as the Dragon of the West who, in his younger years, led the Fire Nation to victory many a time during great wars. The woman sitting in the center is the Firelordess Ursa, and her beauty, even from this distance, shines brightly as she, too, gives a smile. To the right there is a smirking girl, younger than Sokka himself and perhaps more of Katara's age, who has inherited her mother's fine looks, but seems to twist them with the inordinate amount of mischief in her entire visage—more than anything, Sokka notices the amount of lipstick she wears.

He can hear Zuko's breathing beside him, erratic. Sokka leaves him be and wonders if it is as hard to be the Prince of the Fire Nation as it is to be the Prince's betrothed. Staring straight ahead with all the posture that he's been chided about throughout the years (he can hear Hakoda's voice, sharp but laughing—Sokka, up, up! You look like a monkey) that in more common times he's more than likely to ignore, Sokka is slow to notice the warm presence suddenly at his right. Nearly jerking but quick to smooth his step, he glances sidelong to see his sister, shining blue in this red scenery like a lone dewdrop. She is clothed in their mother's dress, one of Kya's favorites, long sleeved gray leather dyed blue, scrubbed supple and luminous, hitting a length above the knee, with an ornate Water Tribe symbol branded high onto the chest and sewed over delicately with blue and white beading. A thick white fox fur curves around her bosom and over her shoulders. Her long brown hair is in two tails, wrapped around with lengths of dyed leather, and another beaded strap wraps around her forehead, with tinkling beads falling on strings from the temples. Her face paint is identical to his; familiar marks move with her gentle smile, and he can feel his nerves waning, for with Katara here there is a slimmer chance of him ruining himself in front of foreign royalty.

Together, they approach the table, and as large servant sweeps the chairs out grandly, they sit in unison. Sokka takes in a breath and pastes on a smile, only to look directly at the princess, who looks positively predatory. Suggestively, her eyes flick to her brother, and Sokka can _feel_ the jerk bristling angrily beside him.

"Mother," says the jerk, and he dips his head. "Uncle."

Firelordess Ursa is suddenly on her feet, her hands clasped together in front of her, smiling so wide it seems like her face may crack in two. At her slight movement of the hands, the servants' din goes quiet, and nothing but the clattering in the kitchens two halls away is heard. General Iroh, too, stands, and the princess, with seeming reluctance, rises as well with a subtle catlike fluidity. Her eyes remain on her brother's though, and Sokka thinks that if looks could kill, the jerk would've set this little girl on fire already. But, even so, he has the vague notion that she is quite hard to catch, and is more than likely to bite back.

"The Fire Nation graciously welcomes you to its lands, Sokka and Katara Sialuk. Please, enjoy your stay here, and anything at all that you need—by all means, do ask." Here the Firelordess pauses, glances down and smiles to herself, whisking away something briefly from her eye. Her gaze locks onto Sokka, and he feels the warmth radiating from her eyes, nearly paining herself to make him feel both special and wanted, "And I'm very glad to welcome you, Sokka Sialuk, to this palace—as our Crown Prince Zuko's long awaited fiancé."

The entire hall erupts into applause, and Sokka colors up to his ears. He can hear the tinkle of Katara's laugh beside him and the subtle sound of her two hands clapping along gingerly; he glances sidelong and can tell his _fiancé_ is wrestling with a similar battle against his own redness. The jerk mouths _"Mother!"_ at the Firelordess, who continues on in bliss, addressing Sokka, the smile lines under her eyes creasing sweetly.

"The soothsayers spoke true, eighteen years ago, when they praised your natural good looks, Sokka Sialuk. You're a spitting image of Chieftain Hakoda when he was young."

Sokks dips his head to her in mild thanks, enjoying her warm disposition. He has heard it all before, but he appreciates this woman's efforts.

"Thank you, Firelordess, for having me here. It is a pleasure to meet you and your family," he pauses lightly, weighing his next words, "and especially your son." He can't help that his neck feels a little warm at this, so what?

But Firelordess Ursa is beaming. Elegantly, she takes a seat. "Eat—eat!" she says, motioning around for Iroh and Azula to sit as well. "After all, we are all family here." Her every word seems to have its own grin. In unison, Sokka, Katara, and the jerk dip their heads, and pick up their utensils.

But Sokka is confused. What are these sticks? The jerk seems quite adept at handling them, but where are the spoons? He glances covertly to his right, and it seems Katara is faring rather well, handling those silly twin sticks with slightly clumsy hands that at least seem as if they've encountered these strange objects before, albeit sparingly.

Then it hits him. Chopsticks. They're red, with tiny gold flowery things etched into the sides and foreign writing up the backs—but who cares what they look like? He'd never learned to use them in the lessons that their governess, Miss Ahnah, drilled them through to "assimilate easily with foreign folk, especially in business relations" because he was too busy being an ingrate. Crap. Crap. _Crap_.

* * *

Zuko notices his—grimace—fiancé fumbling at first, but chooses to ignore it. He is glad the pleading looks he has sent his mother has kept the bubbling questions she is dying to ask the fool in check; rather, she is talking to Iroh quite animatedly, but he is sure that he is going to get an earful later, judging from the looks she's shooting him out of the corner of her eye. Azula, though, stares unashamedly at both Sokka and the girl—Katara, was it?—that he assumes is his sister. She does not do it out of poor taste, nor a lack of manners—actually, Azula has impeccable manners—but because she knows that Zuko knows what she's doing, and she knows the very action of making his fiancé (and kin) vastly uncomfortable will grate at Zuko. Azula even knowsit is not even out of his more protective instincts; in fact, it is more complicated—if his fiancé (wince) is tormented, then Zuko himself will have a much harder time befriending, and later ignoring, the idiot. A sinuous truce is what he'd originally settled on, one that kept them both sane, distant, and appropriately husband-like in public, a mutual sort of thing that said "Yes, I understand we're destined to gay it up eventually, but in the meantime would you like to help each other secure our masculinity by chatting up women?"

But perhaps not exactly that. Zuko isn't very good at talking to girls.

The point is, however, that with Azula mucking things up, it'd be that much harder to get his fiancé-thing to cooperate with his grandmaster plan of "meet-vaguely-befriend-agree-to-ignore-each-other-most-of-the-time." And talk about martial arts. Can't forget that.

And Azula _knew_ that she'd already screwed up something. He could see the triumph lining her teeth, which are showing, actually, to his horror. Then he realizes they are showing because she is talking to the idiot to his right, and dear ancestors, the horror increases tenfold.

"Sokka Sialuk, was it?" she says, and every word is slick. She stares at him with her head tilted so that she sees him only out of the corner of her eye, as if he isn't worth full attention.

The idiot levels her with a stare after a brief start; he appears to be fumbling with his chopsticks—the cross wildly the second Azula's mouth starts to move, and Zuko can see the glint in her eye that says she has not missed the action.

"Oh, yeah—yes, my name is Sokka. And you are—" His eyes whisk to his sister's and Zuko sees her lips very subtly flicker, so fast that he can hardly trace it.

"Azula," Sokka suddenly finishes, pauses, and saves himself, "Princess Azula." He is not the least bit sheepish that he has very obviously forgotten her name, but Zuko is sure Azula doesn't care in the least bit.

"And Sialuk?" says Azula silkily, and Ursa seems to perk up—Zuko can see his mother is slowly tuning into the conversation even as she continues to talk up a storm with her brother-in-law. Ah, the world of politics.

"What about it, Princess?" returns Sokka politely, neutrally, but there is a certain air of defensiveness in his demeanor, an edge in the way his spine suddenly straightens and his eyes are riveted on hers. Zuko sees pride and loyalty in the action, to his Tribe, to his land and nation; a certain patriotism that Zuko had thought to have waned over the years and years of peacetime in recent history—moreover, it was something Zuko had thought was only present here, in the Fire Nation. That same fire, albeit nonvolatile, ran under Zuko's own skin, and in every servant and nobody in the Nation—it was strange, just a tad, to see this same characteristic burning in another, in a foreigner. Zuko understands that every person is a person, and humans are so much alike, but here—seeing this patriotism, a quiet sort of revelation winds underneath him that perhaps the very essence of humankind is in their sense of unity.

"Oh, nothing," says Azula, and Zuko can tell she, too, sees it, "but of course, it is a surprise. Here in the Fire Nation we have been taught that the Water Tribesmen have no surnames." He is surprised at the rather tame statement, but he supposes there is more in store.

Sokka looks surprised at this too, and his sister as well. Briefly, they meet eyes, and Zuko spots Katara's confusion first, and her quick shrug. She opens her mouth to answer, but Azula is a viper.

"I'm speaking to your brother," she cuts in airily, and Katara's eyes widen, and then narrow fractionally. "Tut, tut. You shouldn't interrupt."

Ursa is immediately in the conversation, turned about, and Zuko knows as he demurely picks up a few pieces of bittermelon from an adjacent platter that his mother is pinching the hell out of Azula's side right now.

"Oh, daughter," she says laughingly, "I suppose that's just a common misconception. Sokka, do explain." Her eyes are sharp though, and while Azula doesn't show it, Zuko can tell she is in at least some mild pain.

Sokka seems out of place. He hasn't eaten anything yet, and slowly he gathers himself to speak with what seems like a reassuring pat from Katara. "Ah—well, the clan name is Aningan—that's like the name of our family line. Our family name, though, is Sialuk—it comes from our father. So his surname is just the same as anyone else's—something passed down for, well, ah, I'd say family identity, just like our given names are for personal identity." He scratches the back of his head mildly, with a small flush. "I guess I never cared enough to ask, but "Aningan" is more like our—I guess you would call it our dynasty. The Aningan Clan has ruled the Southern Water Tribe for centuries—"

"So you're saying that the Aningan is referring to a certain family line that has run the Tribe since any history of records began?" Azula cuts in smartly, a flash in her eye. There is hardly a time where she can be shown up; if she can help it, no one within her age group speaks more than she, more knowledgeably than she, or more authoritatively than she.

Zuko keeps quiet and gathers more food on his plate. He supposes if he can stuff enough food into his mouth, this whole ordeal will be done all the more quickly. Or he can eat himself into a coma, rupture his stomach and be carried away from it all earlier than expected. He contemplates the expansion of rice in the stomach cavity, takes an inordinately large bite, and downs a cup of tea.

"Not quite," says Katara, and even Zuko's eyes slide over to her. This is probably the first time he'd ever heard her talk. He hears Sokka in her voice.

Her eyes are blue too, Zuko notices. They shine and are light and remind him of the ocean. But now they are stormy as she looks straight at Azula and says, "Like Sokka was _saying_, the Aningan is the clan that has been heading the Southern Water Tribe for several centuries, but there were other clans that ruled. For the better part of the last two thousand years, right after the Northern Water Tribe split and parts of their warriors and healers and benders left to form our tribe in the southernmost pole, there was unrest in the Southern Water Tribe."

"Coups," adds Sokka, voice light, matter-of-fact. "There were problems over who would rule, as most of the warriors and benders that left were strong, and they were trying to base a hierarchy off strength and skill alone."

Azula is opening her mouth, so Zuko asks, with mild interest, pushing his plate aside: "The Water Tribe was one tribe at some point?"

Katara nods at him, and a small smile resides on the corner of her mouth, in the tiny dimples that form on the tops of her cheeks. She seems infinitely relieved that he is not his sister.

"Of course. The Northern Water Tribe is much, much more heavily protected by its terrain. Its location was chosen strategically by our ancestors. They thought those who split off into the faction to make the Southern Water Tribe were nuts—I mean, why would anyone leave such a prime location?" She laughed a little here, almost an Oh, dear, those ancestors of mine, as if they were not her elders, but silly children.

Sokka toys with his chopsticks. He stacks them one on top of the other, knocks it over, then stacks them again.

"So the Southern Water Tribe is much more vulnerable than the Northern? Weaker, perhaps?" questions Azula, with some triumph. Her hands are together, her wicked nails thrumming against one another.

Katara's eye visibly twitches.

Ursa breaks in, recalling a story that Zuko has heard countless times, about how long ago, in her youth as a young noblewoman of the Fire Nation, she visited the Southern Water Tribe, and blah, blah. There was something about meeting a wonderful young girl there, who had all the same interests, and somehow they managed to blow up a building. Or something. Zuko has trouble listening to his mother, sometimes.

But he notices that his—blanch—fiancé is quiet too, allowing Zuko's mother to dominate the conversation (his Uncle's laugh is comforting, a loud reminder that despite these two foreigners in their midst, this is still home). He glances over. Katara is speaking animatedly to Ursa, and Azula cuts in poisonously every now and again just to irk the Water Tribe girl, and when she succeeds, she gives a hideous grin. The idiot, however, is staring at the vast array of food before him with a most curious expression.

Then he hears it: the rolling, piteous growl of this fool's stomach, rising up above the din of the dining hall. But perhaps Zuko is exaggerating, because he's likely to do that sometimes, because no one else neither notices nor cares, but he is right next to the fool, and ancestors, that was loud.

The fool is staring back at him with a vaguely mortified expression; he can see that his stomach has warranted Zuko's attention, and he has the decency to be absolutely humiliated. Ah, good.

"What, simpleton? Can't even feed yourself?" says Zuko scathingly, and as ash-colored regret pools in his stomach, he curses his need to be a jerk. The fool—Sokka—seems genuinely horrified.

"Um—about that—really, I mean," says Sokka. Then his hand comes to cover his eyes and trail down the front of his face. He mumbles something so quiet and jarbled that Zuko has to lean closer and press, "Say again?"

Blue eyes are suddenly on him, and the Water Tribesman Prince snaps quietly, "I can't use chopsticks, alright? Sue me."

Zuko draws back suddenly, and bites back a snicker. "Really?" he says, eyes wide. The mortified flush is more than enough of an answer.

Sokka says, mildly sarcastic, "Okay, well, go ahead now—announce it, flaunt it, do something, because I'm hungry and I can't get food into my mouth at all with these things. What in the world—who decided they needed to use these anyway? Two sticks? Together? It's dumb, that's what it is. Who uses sticks for anything but poking? I can't poke all my food. That wouldn't even get me a grain of rice. You can't poke seal blubber and yogurt. You can't poke whale—"

As Sokka—the fool—blathered on angrily to himself, Zuko very discretely caught the eye of one of the servants and politely requested a spoon. It was there in a flash, shining like a knight's armor, and as Sokka went on and on, Zuko placed it quietly next to the fool's left hand, and when he didn't notice it, Zuko lightly pressed the cold porcelain to the backs of his knuckles.

Sokka froze, cranking his head to the left, where Zuko was quietly eating. He looked down, and immense relief flooded his face as he spotted the familiar utensil—a bit oddly shaped, though, he must admit—and picked it up. He looked eager to dig in, but he paused, and Zuko could hear the cogs in his head spinning songs of: Well, I'm so hungry. But if I shove my spoon—my weird spoon when everyone is using chopsticks—into this food right now, everyone is going to look at me like I'm a mannerless monster, and I'll look like the kid that took the biggest lotus cake on purpose. But I'm hungry. And dumb.

Well, that last part was creative license.

So Zuko leans forward with his own chopsticks, and lightly plucks assorted meats and vegetables from the nearest platters, placing them gingerly on the plate in front of Sokka. He motions for a servant to fill Sokka's rice bowl as well, and places a few dumplings on top of the steaming white mound.

The fool is at a loss. Zuko doesn't look him in the eye, just sits comfortably back and continues eating his food. After all, he is still aiming for gastric rupture. Already his stupid trophy-clothes seem a little tighter. But he knows that this is a bit of wishful thinking, because he'll take a glance in the looking glass after the banquet's end and he'll be completely normal. Stupid six -pack.

A brief sidelong glance, and he can tell Sokka is eating slowly, rather confused, but he doesn't care. Zuko knows he is a nice person; he's not trying to prove it to anyone. Really.

But Sokka eats, that's the good thing; he seems a little wary at first, but his mouth is full in no time at all. His gaze is fixed vaguely in the direction of Zuko's right hand, as if looking at Zuko at all would cause utter misery upon his family, but Zuko pays no mind. He doesn't need any graciousness. This is his—argh—fiancé, so he may as well be pleasant. After all, his actions can make up for the accursed habit he has of spewing utter douchebaggery whenever he parts his lips. He supposes he has to compensate in some way for being what his uncle calls "a reflexively defensive hooligan" (insert full-belly laugh).

Zuko looks about and to his relief no one has noticed his action, as it seems that Katara and his sister have gotten into some sort of feigned-polite quarrel. Azula is tossing her head about, arrogant to the core and completely remorseless, and Katara looks as if she could dash her plate onto the table into jagged pieces and murder her. Ursa is cutting in now and again, laughing. She mouths sidelong to Iroh, "Oh, Azula has a new friend!" and Iroh throws his head back and laughs deeply.

But Zuko knows his mother isn't joking. If Azula has actually harbored any sort of dislike for the Water Tribe princess, she'd have already desecrated the poor girl's reputation in front of the entire banquet hall— she would've had her head on a proverbial pike, all without batting a lash. In laymen's terms, Azula is scary. But as of yet, she seems to be egging Katara on like a plaything, which is a game she usually plays with Zuko, and if she's treating Katara like she treats Zuko, that means Zuko needs to learn this little Water Tribe girl's secrets. It took him about ten years to achieve that level of Azula's more harmless form of attention (although in actuality, there are very few forms of her attention that remain completely innocuous, but with a practiced ear and a hardened heart, one can pass by unscathed), and he's blood-related.

A tiny clatter, and Zuko peeks to his right: Sokka has finished, spoon at rest precariously on the side of his plate, but he appears to have left his vegetables untouched. Even the vegetables in the dumplings are tiny scraps along the bottom of his bowl. Zuko sighs. So he was one of those types.

Wordlessly, Zuko motions for someone to refill Sokka's bowl of rice. He supposes if he's aiming to make his stomach burst, he may as well take this Water Tribesman with him, so maybe they can finally have that martial arts conversation in Hell. He uses his own chopsticks to decorate Sokka's plate once more, this time with exclusively red meats and pork dumplings.

Sokka sits and watches, and gladly digs in, but not before giving Zuko a brief nod. Azula and Katara's argument is escalating, and Ursa is laughing joyously with Iroh about something or another, their conversation reaching a crescendo as well, just to be heard over the high pitched, offended Katara, and the snickering Azula.

The boys sit and eat in silence. Zuko feels sick, but he keeps eating. They do not look at each other, nor do they speak to one another. Zuko feels as if this is a preview of the rest of his life.

That is, until the wind picks up. Which is strange, because there are no windows in the banquet hall, and none of the doors are open.

And then it gets stronger, enough to even make Azula cock a brow—then plates start upturning, and Zuko has to look up miserably—ancestors, he's full—just in time to dodge a dumpling flying toward his face. Sokka is squawking, Katara is yelling, Ursa is shouting orders, and Iroh—well, Iroh is laughing. And he's staring toward the majestic door at the rear of the room, creaking open as if a whirlwind is forming behind it, shuddering this way and that.

"Airbenders!" shouts Iroh in delight. "Airbenders! Why, I haven't seen an Airbender in years!"

* * *

**A/N**: Well, hello. Sorry for the lateness (and the cliff hanger), it's been a while since I've been inspired enough, but I'd have to say that your reviews fuel me. Thank you all! And, yeah, so some things to address:

I gave a half-assed explanation as to why the servants in the Fire Nation palace are so informal with those they are serving, but I must say that when I was writing about it in the previous chapter initially, I kind of just found it funny. But, it's also a time of peace, and I'd imagine that Ozai kind of puts a damper on any bonding in the palace, which is why I deleted him. I also are dumb, because I didn't know that a palanquin is called a palanquin, and I was too lazy to look it up, so I called it a rickshaw. Sorry guys. Haha (:

Sometimes I like Zuko more than Sokka because he's more fun to make fun of. I also had fun with the Inuit-inspired, Japanese/Chinese-inspired clothing, let me know if you find it too extraneous. I read somewhere that the Fire Nation is supposed to be modeled after Japan, and the Earth Kingdom after China, but in all honesty I've always thought of it as the Fire Nation being like China and the Earth Kingdom being vaguely Korean-inspired, thus the names in the Fire Nation will be distinctly Chinese, and those from the Earth Kingdom distinctly Korean. Forgive me. But I hope you enjoyed! Thank you all for coming. (:


	4. Anew

**Marriage Something.**

_Anew._

The door shudders and rocks, finally splitting open with a resounding clatter. The servants are all in a fuss, milling about the door checking to see if anything is damaged. Three tall, bald men step gracefully from the warbling, confused mass, appearing to Zuko as if they are not touching the ground at all. Their robes are distinctly yellow and orange, and every textbook rendition of Air Nomad clothing attacks Zuko all at once. His uncle has a very clear, worrying point: Airbenders have been so reticent in recent years that Zuko cannot even remember seeing one up close. Ever.

He stares briefly at Sokka, who has stopped squawking like a cretin, and allows himself a glimmer of appreciation at both Sokka and Katara's stances. Their eyes are narrowed, wary, and they shoot covert glances at one another in unspoken communication.

Everyone at the head table seems frozen after the subsequent entrance of three figures that scream "political repercussions," except for his uncle himself. He smiles broadly and waves the Airbenders closer. They glide along pinkish tiles, the oldest and most respectable man at the front. He has a shrunken sort of face, reminding Zuko vaguely of a rotting apple. His long robes flutter in waves along the floor, but the disturbing floating trick seems most prominent in the gait of the man to his left, who appears hospitably amused despite the obvious tension.

His mother's voice is a blessing, cutting through the thick air like a broadsword.

"Monk Yonten, a pleasure," she calls and stands, a sign of graciousness. Her shoulders lower imperceptibly, and Zuko notices that Azula mimics her. His sister's crimson lips, though, are pulled back into a sneer that she adopts when puzzled.

The Air Nomads reach the table and spread into a rough triangle, the old one in front.

"Fire Lordess Ursa. Forgive our—intrusion. We didn't mean to come calling unannounced, but— circumstances have gone out of our hands. We must speak to you, if you please," says the old one, his face remotely apologetic and his tone a notch less. His long, dark silver beard twitches in an action that Zuko can only assume to be anxiety.

"Ah, of course. Forgive me, we are actually in the middle of a meal," says Ursa, worrying her lower lip and glancing significantly at the conspicuously blue spots at the table.

The monk to Monk Yonten's left chuckles. He is, almost impossibly, taller than the other two, willowy and pleasant looking, with a moustache that reminds Zuko of a dragon. The Airbender to Yonten's right is noticeably younger, dressed only in brownish pants and a yellow jerkin with an orange sash. He has a conspicuous lack of facial hair. Even so, the willowy one's kindly air and easy smile make him appear leagues younger.

"Come now, Yonten," says the willowy one. His light, merry voice makes Zuko want to smile, too, a need he squashes down with no small amount of mortification. "Can't you see they are in the middle of greeting Prince Zuko's betrothed?" Zuko's eyes are caught by amused brown ones, and he feels his cheeks heat. He feels the familiar dread of his personal business being the knowledge of a nation. It is perhaps more far-reaching than he thought, if it had fallen upon the ears of a highly isolated tribe of nomads.

Monk Yonten's wrinkled cheek twitches and he sends his comrade a sidelong look.

Zuko's mother suddenly speaks, and her cautious air is absent. "Monk Gyatso," she says, her voice loose and surprised. "My apologies. I didn't seem to recognize you. Welcome."

"The apology should be mine, Firelordess. Monk Yonten was ever so hasty in his retreat. I'm afraid I couldn't impede such a flashy entrance," says the monk addressed. He winks quickly before his fellow monk draws up his ruffled feathers and puts up a silencing hand.

"Firelordess Ursa, my apologies again. Deepest apologies," says Monk Yonten stonily.

"Ah, forgiven, of course," says his mother. "If only because the world has missed its capricious Airbenders," she teases, but her tone seems to be questioning. "No matter," she continues. "Shall you join us?"

Monk Yonten opens his mouth with a furrowed brow, but Monk Gyatso raises a hand and he says, "We'd love to. Thank you for your gracious invitation."

Monk Yonten and their silent companion stare at Monk Gyatso in shock and Yonten looks to protest, but Gyatso just walks forward to the table and the pair hurry to follow.

Monk Yonten appears to be whispering quickly to Gyatso, who doesn't bat an eye. Instead, he smiles widely at his mother and uncle, who both gesture to the several empty seats at the large ornate table.

Yonten takes a seat with a heavy air, his shoulders rigid even when Gyatso sits and places a hand on them. Yonten seems content with sending Gyatso several entirely not sly glances of abject outrage, which are blithely ignored. The young monk belatedly sits next to what Zuko has come to understand are not merely his elders, but his mentors. The monk coughs delicately into his hand, and all of a sudden looks very much like the child Zuko imagines himself to be, dressed up in trophy clothing next to people that are the actual important ones.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" says Uncle loudly, capturing the attention of all. Zuko can see the Water Tribe siblings smile through their silence. They have both stopped eating, and their hands are folded neatly in front of them diplomatically. Without a doubt, this is an interesting turn, and he doubts they will hesitate to run to their father soon after to tell him of the news. He reminds himself once more that they are royalty as well, but he cannot help himself. The mental image of Sokka, cretinous and buffoonish Sokka, goggling at the Airbenders like circus creatures as they came up to the table was both satisfying and disappointing. After all, he has to marry such a disgrace, but the fact that the scene hadn't played out exactly like he imagines puts a tang of petulance on his tongue. He entertained it to be a product of his often off-the-wall humor. Laughing later at the oaf would have been satisfying, but he briefly imagines Sokka laughing back, and his mental function is suddenly quashed.

"—Choden," says the young one. Zuko is surprised to see him speaking and realizes this is his name. His voice is deep, but quiet. He scratches at the arrow on his head absently.

Gyatso claps him on the shoulder. "Not so shy, young one! Plenty of people your age, here." He elbows Choden in the ribs teasingly, and Katara titters, only quelled by Sokka's horrified look.

Choden smiles a smidgen, the left corner of his mouth stretching upwards, and Zuko finds himself watching the action.

Monk Gyatso is a class act, it seems, and he eagerly edges into the conversation that Uncle and Zuko's mother have started, and he is wholesomely welcomed. Azula digs her claws a little deeper into Katara, apparently coming back to where they left off. Katara begins to shout indignantly, and no one appears to either care or desire her to quiet down, if only because her loudness amuses his sister.

Zuko is left with the suddenly sick feeling that the arrival of the Airbenders has distracted him from. His stomach feels so large that rather than just pressing his pants outward, it feels like it's stretching the tendons of his every abdominal muscle outward, too, as if his innards are attached to a heavy sack of rice that dangles in front of him. Zuko wants nothing more than to lay on his back and throw up violently, perhaps not in that order.

With Sokka facing his sister across the table, Zuko is left to stare at the new comers. Monk Gyatso has seated himself merrily next to Katara and, alarmingly, across from Zuko, Choden and Monk Yonten beside him. Every so often, pausing in his rather loud verbal outreaches to his mother at the table's head, Monk Gyatso turns shimmering eyes to Zuko, which only serves to alarm him further. Next to him, Choden appears to be listening intently, but every once in while Zuko can see his eyes, too. They are a murky hazelnut color, a color Zuko decides is rather like the arch of the sun that makes tree bark glow in the dense forests of the Earth Kingdom. Then Zuko mentally kicks himself for- whatever he just did.

The fool next to him says nothing, just listening to Gyatso in front of him. His head is angled slightly toward Zuko, but his eyes are enraptured by the older man. Zuko wonders if his mind wanders, too, then he just sits back into his chair with his distended stomach clutched in his palms and hopes desperately for this all to be over. His curiosity is by no means overwhelming his discomfort, he decides, and stares down at his spoon.

* * *

Sokka is confused, if anything, because when the hell are Airbenders supposed to visit the Fire Nation and then join them for dinner? Katara, he knows, is thrown, too, but her anger toward the little Fire Princess next to her is undoubtedly hurting her ability to focus on anything other than hurling insults. He's never quite seen anyone that could rile Katara so easily. He'd be amused if the enigmatic Air Monk was not in front of him, shooting him furtive glances that are nothing short of knowing and amused.

Even so, the old monk has a great orating voice. He demands attention when he speaks. Sokka thinks the man has earned his respect without even trying, especially as he continues on about the only technological advancement the Airbenders have embraced in a near century.

Although, he does worry about the presence of these Airbenders. They seemed so eager to speak with the Firelordess that they had apparently forgone all common and royal courtesies. He wonders what they must be so riled up about. It must not be a small matter, considering the gravity of actually showing themselves outside of an international, diplomatic grand peacocking event, or those things that made his father cringe. The great, gesticulating conversation that is currently unraveling between the Firelordess, the monk, and the old general does well to cover the undercurrent of unrest. This sort of thing is more than a good notch above the intensity of his hunting troupe meetings. It is something Sokka sees as a challenge; the ebb and flow of information is something he relishes. If only they would speak out loud, around the elephantbear in the room!

He notices that the jerk is being quiet, as per usual. Out of his peripherals, he can see the golden eyes flickering about the room. Surely he notices the tension as well.

The food, he imagines, is getting cold. It still looks delicious, but he is no longer hungry, surprisingly. Maybe he'll pay for it later. He hopes that he can sneak about to some kitchens during the night. He is too on edge to eat. He has a feeling that no matter the importance of the Airbenders' appearance, he'll still be left out of the loop, especially in this foreign land.

Suddenly, a cough emanates near him. It is the old monk, Gyatso, who Sokka had, embarrassingly, tuned out in favor of his own thoughts.

"Ah, forgive me, Firelordess," says Gyatso as he pushes out his chair to stand. The Firelordess starts a bit, from what Sokka can tell, but stays silent. Her expression seems suddenly guarded. It is the old general who speaks up after a quick, booming laugh.

"Leaving so soon?" he says, looking to rise as well. The Firelordess' hand halts a hair from touching his. He glances at her but remains seated.

Gyatso smiles winningly, if a bit tiredly. "Firelordess Ursa, my apologies run deeper than I can express. I must put a halt to the pleasantries, but know that your hospitality is well received- there are pressing matters to attend, Firelordess-"

Monk Yonten rises, a tight coil of fury. He dodges around the unfortunately confused looking Airbender boy and takes hold of Gyatso's sleeve. "Not here," he hisses, looking about.

Gyatso opens his mouth, and Sokka can suddenly see more wear in his posture. He has a feeling this is a well-worn argument between the two of them. Coming from the Air Temples must have been a tense affair. Gyatso's jaw clicks shut.

Firelordess Ursa raises a hand and speaks to the dinner attendant. The young woman appears surprised, but nods gravely. She speaks quietly and motions to the other servants, and the grand dining chamber is suddenly emptied of every one but the table's occupants.

"Go on, Monk Gyatso," says Ursa encouragingly. The table has gone dead silent. Sokka can hear tiny bugs outside through the open screens toward the sides of the room, chirruping, and he draws a breath and holds it.

Monk Yonten clears his throat roughly and says, "That is quite enough. I will not have such sensitive information be passed in front of- children!" He crosses his arms.

Sokka cannot help but stare at the man incredulously, but he is momentarily distracted by the old general's good humor, which cuts through both the Fire Princess' and Katara's acrid expressions.

"Esteemed Monk Yonten! Please- this is more than a round of children. They are the next generation, I'll have you know!" He laughs with his big belly shaking, and as he straightens Sokka is caught off guard by the serious edge that the old general has taken on, sharpening his appearance even to the tips of his thick fingers. "If your news must be so clandestine, it no doubt will have an anchor in their futures." There is no room for argument in his voice, which maintains a lightly merry air, but the pretense is gone.

Monk Yonten quails at the sight of the old general, stepping back slightly so he is partially hidden by Gyatso's body. Gyatso chances a grim sort of smile and Sokka does not feel comforted.

"More than anything I am reluctant to be the bearer of bad news. I'm afraid there is much to account for in our absence of- say, nearly sixteen years," Gyatso says, but his words feel ominous to Sokka, who does not miss the specificity.

The young monk stands here, too, his face blank except for thinned lips. Monk Yonten stares at the table.

"I'll be quite frank, Firelordess. What I am divulging to this room is of utmost importance. It must be handled carefully. Please, do not let our actions speak louder than our reasoning, if you could," says Gyatso, and he stares straight to the head of the table and Sokka can feel that breath he held earlier is still not quite out of his lungs.

"Get on with it, now," says Monk Yonten, gruffly, after a significant pause. Gyatso regains his bearings and speaks.

"The Avatar has returned."

* * *

The silence is frightening, or perhaps Zuko just thinks so.

The Avatar! Ancestors, the Avatar! The Avatar had been conspicuously absent for- for nearly a hundred years! Grimly, he notes that he would be one to know. After all, the last Avatar was his great-grandfather Roku, a great man, by his mother's account. The Avatar cycle was always best known by the sages of the four nations, who now holed themselves up nearly as well as the Airbenders themselves, enjoying the great extent of what Zuko imagined to be heavenly privacy. Their prominence, accompanied by the suspicious absence of the Avatar, came into decline within more recent years. The people of the Fire Nation had their soothsayers- Ancestors forbid, those damn soothsayers, thinks Zuko with a groan- to depend on, but he cannot help but wonder what has happened to the rest of the nation's faith.

The Avatar was master of all elements, and was heralded as a savior in the past. Granted, his absence and the ensuing peace seemed to convince the current generations that the Avatar was merely a harbinger of war. His Great-Grandfather Roku, though a highly respected man, did not dissuade this idea, for his tragic death ended a great conflict between the Fire Nation and the other three nations.

Surely, the Avatar had been reincarnated immediately- but this was nearly a century ago. Air was next in the cycle, Zuko understood from his studies but-

Airbenders. Here. After a long absence.

Oh, hell.

"W-ha-" Zuko manages, his throat nearly closed. His uncle and mother pale considerably, and Sokka, the oaf, looks about in obvious incomprehension. His sister's eyebrow raises, then knits downward in thought. Katara, he thinks, may be struggling to breathe just as much as he.

"You hid the Avatar for a hundred years?!" blurts Zuko, suddenly able to speak his silliest thoughts and embarrass himself with them.

Gyatso laughs here, in that pure, kindly humor that seems to be an unwavering aspect of his character. Zuko feels all the attention in the room shift to him, even Sokka's and especially Choden's, and he colors brilliantly, hoping very fervently to melt into his chair and be gone.

"No, no, Prince Zuko," says Monk Gyatso. His hand, encased in a long, flowing orange sleeve, floats to his lips as he laughs very quietly into his wrist. Zuko can feel probing gazes from all sides of him, and he hates it. There has been few times where he has wanted to be center of attention, all competition with Azula aside.

Fortunately, Gyatso speaks again, gaining rapt attention. "He is a young boy, no older than you or Choden" says Gyatso. Then he hesitates, as if lost in thought.

Zuko's mother interjects, voicing what is perhaps the most pressing issue on their minds, "And, forgive me, but why are you choosing now to inform us of this—grave matter?" Her words are angry, but her tone is not. Zuko can tell she has merely been blindsided, just as she is blindsided by Azula's rare acts of kindness.

Gyatso appears to continue thinking, his brow furrowing slightly, and Yonten answers instead, with drawn back lips.

"The Avatar is missing, Firelordess Ursa. He has run away, and we have reasons to believe that he has come here, to the Fire Nation capital, in search of the spirit of Avatar Roku."

Gyatso glances sidelong at Yonten's rather bitter tone, but he nonetheless says, "He is a lost young man, Firelordess. More so figuratively than physically—he has always been rather predictable." Zuko notices that his tone is suddenly affectionate.

Yonten gives a startlingly derisive laugh, quelled only by Gyatso's withering look.

Gyatso continues, "When we realized where he had gone, we came immediately. It is our tradition to inform the Avatar of his identity on his sixteenth birthday. Unfortunately, things got out of hand—"

Choden, it seems, tenses at this, and looks away.

"Please, Firelordess, understand. Do not blame us for our decision to keep the identity of the renewed Avatar spirit in confidence. We meant no harm, except to give young Aang a healthy, normal life," says Gyatso finally, with a small, pleading look.

Uncle is the first to respond. He says, in his warmest voice, "Monk Gyatso, there is no harm done. The tree is only strengthened by the hidden branch, my great-grandfather used to say. I see this young man must mean a lot to you."

Ursa takes after him without missing a beat. "Of course, no harm done," she says, but she worries her bottom lip. She is, undoubtedly, thinking of Zuko's father. The Avatar in the Fire Nation! Surely that would present the perfect reason for the Firelord to return.

"I will alert the Royal Guard. There is no reason to fear, Monk Gyatso. We shall find him, and escort him here," says Ursa grandly, gesturing wide.

"Surely not as a prisoner?" says Gyatso drily, and Ursa laughs.

"Surely not," she says, and stands. "Forgive me, Monk Gyatso. I see this feast coming to a close. We must have much on our minds. Please, allow me to extend an invitation to you to stay here in the palace, your companions Monk Yonten and Monk Choden as well. Until the Avatar is found you are welcome here."

All three bow and murmur thanks. Gyatso smiles that wise old smile when Uncle says rather loudly, "Stay even after the Avatar is found! Ancestors, the Avatar, and Airbenders too, a fine day indeed!"

* * *

Servants flood back into the hall to whisk away their plates and accompany guests away to their chambers. Sokka follows Katara and the same servant with the spinning globe earring who had led them about earlier to a huge split suite in the same wing he and the jerk had a standoff in earlier. After asking briefly if they need anything and confirming their refusal lightly, the servant is gone, leaving Sokka alone with his sister.

Katara stares around, whistling low. "We're far from home," she says, but she rushes to Sokka's bed and there is delight in her voice as she squeals and jumps into its plushness.

"Katara, hello! Katara! My bed!" roars Sokka indignantly. He approaches her and they wrestle briefly, a spat that ends with Sokka water-whipped in the face, and Katara snuggling his pillows. He is pouting, sitting on the carpet and holding his face when he is faced with a pair of eyes identical to his own. Katara peers over the edge of his bed at him.

"Should we message Dad?" she asks in almost a whisper.

Sokka's insides slither uncomfortably. "I don't think so," he says after a moment. He doesn't know how wise it would be to send a messenger with such delicate information.

"But Sokka, what will the Fire Nation nobles think when they see a kid with an arrow on his head?" _The Air Nomads have returned, time to announce it to the world! Wait, why are they here? Traitors! Sequestering the Avatar for themselves!_

Sokka hesitates a beat and bites nervously at his thumbnail, thinking deeply. "Ah—well, maybe—but the Avatar is supposed to be like an ancient wisdom or something, right? He can't be so stupid to run around with all that exposed."

Katara laughs lightly. "So—what do you think?" She rolls languidly onto her back, moving her long limbs back and forth as if floating in water. Ever since Katara had mastered waterbending years ago on a leave to the Northern Water Tribe, Sokka had begun to associate her with the element itself. Katara's temper is legendary, but waterbending had smoothed her edges in the same way the tides shape walls of sediment.

"What do I think? Of the Avatar situation? Good ancestors, I feel like—"

"Not that," says Katara with a look.

Sokka's heart sinks. "The Fire Nation jerk. Well, he's a jerk."

"And?" says Katara expectantly.

"I mean, he treats me like I'm trash. He acts like I'm something on the bottom of his shoe and won't look at me."

"What about the spoon thing?"

Sokka starts guiltily. "You noticed that?"

Katara just smiles.

"If he's willing to feed me, I guess he's not so bad," concedes Sokka, his fingers playing together. "But so help me Ancestors, if he turns out to be super gay and is like all over me, I'm going to swim home," he adds, for effect.

Katara goes off about equality in love and life and Sokka tunes her out. He thinks of Zuko sitting next to him mutely until they are old and fat, then of the Avatar boy, not much older than them, lost in the Fire Nation capital, scared, alone. He hopes to meet the Avatar, wouldn't that be novel? But more than anything he wants to shoo away the grave feeling that there are no coincidences.

* * *

Zuko is nearly to his chamber when he notices the hushed voices in his hall. One is high and the other low—a male and female, here, oh Ancestors they've put the Water Tribesmen in his private wing. He vaguely feels the need to go to his mother and whine.

He wonders how that would go—_but Mama, my virginity…_

He pushes open the tall red doors to his bedchamber and notices that even the more typical servants have retired. He thinks nothing of it, moving silently in the dim, paper lantern light to the large, carved window. He sits on the edge, looking out into the brightening lights of the capital as the storekeepers in the marketplace feed oil into their lantern flames, and he begins to unbutton his uncomfortable clothing with relish. He tugs his flame hairpiece out of his topknot and places it next to him, sighing.

The wind kicks up, and he thinks nothing of it until it nearly blows him off the sill.

"What the—"

Then that boy, the Airbender boy, is in his window, standing, and Zuko is ready to bellow angrily, his throat nearly full of fire, but Choden reaches down hastily and places a hand on his mouth. It is his eyes that get Zuko, soft and pale, and Zuko says nothing, just stares accusingly.

"Prince Zuko, I'm sorry. For intruding, for—ah. Hear me out," says Choden as his hand slips away and he puts it up in a halting, placating gesture. "I mean no harm. I just had nowhere else to turn. Prince Zuko, I must ask you something."

"And?" says Zuko irritably, the adrenaline wearing off into the slight buzz of annoyance. How dare he just fly his way into his private quarters? This really must be an off day for princely authority.

Choden's eyes are huge and pleading, and Zuko thinks fuzzily of his reflexive Earth Kingdom forest reference and wonders, just very minutely, what the fuck is wrong with him today.

"Will you help me find him?" Choden is saying, coming closer, his hands at his chest imploringly.

"Who?" demands Zuko, sharper than expected. He really needs to learn to play nice, says a voice in his head that sounds eerily like Azula, and isn't that the vision of irony?

Choden hesitates, looks aside. "The Avatar," he says, with quiet resolve.

"What?" hisses Zuko, thinking that Choden is much too close.

"The Avatar," says Choden, again. "His name is Aang."

"Whatever his name is! Alright, I mean _why_," says Zuko, bold enough this time to move closer to Choden, staring into his face in what he thinks is a standoffish encounter of focus and wits.

Then Choden's face moves even closer, much much much too close, and oh Ancestors, Zuko scrambles backwards suddenly, his heart beating so fast he's surprised it hasn't run away.

Choden's mouth lifts up in what Zuko thinks might be amusement, which he resents.

"Please, Prince Zuko. I must find Aang. If not—he'll be caught by a random passerby and they'll recognize him immediately."

"How would they recognize him?" shoots back Zuko. "He would cover his arrow, wouldn't he? Surely he can't be that stupid!" He notices for the first time the bandana Choden wears on his head.

Choden gives him a flat look. Zuko takes a breath too deep and coughs.

"He is that stupid," says Choden. "Well. Not stupid, just naïve. He's a free spirit, if anything. He wouldn't think anything's wrong."

"Why should I help you?" counters Zuko petulantly.

Choden squares his shoulders on the sill and Zuko can feel a part of him shrink.

Choden says, "It's a fuss that would be better not undertaken. Plus, I think that he'll just blame himself if things turn over badly." He looks at his hands and continues, "I'm sure you don't really want to deal with the repercussions, Prince Zuko. And I don't want him traumatized by guards taking him here. He's a good boy, really. A good friend."

"He's your—friend?" says Zuko.

"Yes, he is. A good friend, really, a best friend. Maybe he might not think so, but I—he's—" Choden gestures rather than speaks, looking for his words.

Zuko's never had many friends, certainly never a best friend, unless you count his sister, and even with his low level of sociability he knows that's a stretch. There have been a passing few in the Fire Nation Academy for Young Boys, but most quailed at his princehood. He's never really been one for conversation, either. Friends never quite fit into his studies and his training. He wonders what it is like—friends.

"I'll help you," says Zuko, and Choden takes his hand, unfurls a glider from what Zuko had thought was a bo-staff, and they're flying, flying, out the window and down into the gardens, past the gates and into the city, and Zuko can only hold on and feel like a woman. He's never liked the rising feeling in his stomach despite all his experience with acrobatics, but this free fall that only an Airbender truly knows is terrifying. His grip is too tight, he knows it, and he swears Choden is chuckling at his obvious fright.

Their hectic flight ends in an obscure alley near the Capital gates, with Zuko falling to his knees and staring at the floor in anguish.

Choden is silent next to him, collapsing the glider with ease, and Zuko raggedly looks up at him.

"Never… again," heaves Zuko, and he wishes that he had never agreed to all this.

Choden actually dares to laugh at him and Zuko is too winded to feel murderous. He lets the Airbender slip an arm around his elbow and haul him up. He tries to act as dignified as he can while he still feels like his innards have sloshed into his throat. Typically Firebending does not include aerial endeavors (unless you're Azula, damn her) and Zuko intends to let it stay that way. The half-digested food from his foray into hideous gluttony is threatening to reappear.

"Come," says Choden insistently, in a hushed voice. Vertigo is still gripping Zuko, but his hand moves to his throat and he lets Choden pull him through the alley into the open street.

There are a sizable amount of people up and about, mostly of the mobile merchant class that come and go, setting up shop in the Capital for a few days and moving on. Zuko wishes he had worn something simpler, had covered his face—the upper echelons of Fire Nation society is not typically seen out this late without a procession; it's improper. The quality of his fine sleeveless vest is easier to spot than a horrible disfiguration, that's for sure. He looks about nervously, but it appears Choden is slightly shielding him with his own body. The Airbender's head is down, but he deftly lifts a cloak off a cart's hanging sign and hands it wordlessly to Zuko, who gratefully dons it, pulling up the hood.

"Where do we start looking?" whispers Zuko, staring at a cart that hosts a variety of rather ugly masks. He thinks the shopkeep might be wearing one, too, but he's not quite so sure.

Choden has a rather low, smooth laugh. "I thought that was up to you," he says quietly back. "I have no idea where we are."

Oh. Isolation, and all that. "We're nearest the theatre right now."

"Aang's always been attracted to the shiniest thing he can find."

They reach the theatre after a short while of dodging through people, just as Zuko had nearly given in to his dignified "no touching" rule when they had passed a basin filled with swimming turtleducks. There are hoards of people crowded outside the entrance, talking loudly in a smooth buzz and sipping on wooden mugs of dragonberry wine. They are slowly moving inwards, a massive exodus to the interior, until they disappear. A mandolin is being played on the inside, with longer strains of an instrument Zuko, with all his prissy etiquette schooling, gladly cannot recall. The dregs of the crowd are moving to the side of the theatre, where a small wooden stage is set up. Choden migrates with them, Zuko following with a somewhat heavy heart.

"Look there," says Choden.

There are young boys setting a messy backdrop on the little stage, and one is half dressed in a dragon suit. They place a few feathery robes on the ground, along with a tub of water, and disappear behind the stage. A low rumble of curious murmurs erupts from the crowd as a man, dressed jauntily in a bright red robe and a feathered hat tipped rakishly over one eye, bounds onto the stage and cups hands around his mouth.

"Esteemed ladies and gentleman!" he bellows, and all grows quiet. "I welcome you to a Twin Luck Flower Theatre Company Production!" There are snickers at the name, but otherwise, the crowd behaves.

"Tonight! A wondrous tale of intrigue, mystery, romance, and betrayal! _The Goddess' Feathered Robe_!"

A group of young girls, dressed scantily in bathing clothes, flood tonto the stage from both sides, appearing to wash their long limbs gracefully. They stop toward the end of the stage, and the announcer sweeps into a grand bow and exits sideways, still hunched over. In his wake, a chubby little boy with a rather silly haircut stumbles onstage with a large, painted wood representation of a tree. He places it in the center of the stage and exits clumsily amongst catcalls and laughter.

The announcer, also the narrator, orates loudly as the pretty girls do a graceful dance, all smooth edges and Zuko can recognize the basics of Firebending in their movements.

"The goddesses came down every day to bathe in the depths of the nation's finest bathing spring. Good, devout citizens placed small things on the sides of the spring, but always before noontime, when the goddesses would descend. They knew better than to interfere in the affairs of goddesses, these people, but one man did not."

A tall man with his glossy hair tied back enters the scene, appearing to be peeking around the tree. The girls continue to dance, so close they nearly touch one another with every languid movement.

Zuko had heard this story often. He glances askance at Choden, who appears entranced as the girls onstage reach upward and each let out a fierce ball of flame into the sky.

"You—Airbender. Shouldn't we be searching for the Avatar?"

Choden looks at him, surprised, off guard. Then he laughs into his wrist and pats Zuko's shoulder, much to Zuko's chagrin.

"I've never seen it up close, firebending," say Choden conversationally, as if he hadn't heard.

Zuko doesn't know what to say. He looks up at the stage, and the tall man is talking to the prettiest goddess, alone. He has a feathered robe behind his back.

"It's so… I'm not quite sure what it is, really. So different," says Choden, the fire from the angry goddess reflecting in his eyes.

"Fire is a reflection of all our passion," replies Zuko, parroting Uncle's words.

"Are Firebenders more passionate than regular people, then?" asks Choden, with a tiny lilt of something in his voice.

"No," says Zuko, a little confusedly, "I'm pretty angry, though."

Choden laughs. "Where next?" he says. "Aang isn't here, from what I can see."

They spend the night this way, and despite being the foreigner, Zuko feels that Choden is always one step ahead of him, somehow. They skim through the markets together, led by Choden's curiosity. When they reach the food stands, Zuko quails but Choden eagerly bites into a fire pasty financed hesitantly by Zuko himself.

Zuko learns that Choden is an only child whose father passed away when he was young. He learns that Choden was one of the youngest Airbendering masters to get his arrow—that is, before the Avatar came around. He also learns that Choden is nearly carefree to a fault and moves like the air he bends.

Even with Choden whirling through people to get through the market and winning a fish at a game stand, Zuko is always looking for another blue arrow in the crowd. There is none that he can see, and as the lights of the festive Capital City begin to wane, he reluctantly lets Choden take them back to the palace.

They land at one of the yawning windows in the hall outside of his chamber, and Zuko quickly thanks his Ancestors that his feet are on solid ground again. Choden's face has that mischievous, playful quality that Zuko begins to associate with him, and before he starts off in the direction of his guest wing, he takes Zuko absently by the wrist and looks at it.

"Strong wrists," he says, once again in that conversational voice that Zuko finds not at all appropriate for the situation. "Other weaponry?"

"Dao blades. Broadswords," replies Zuko warily, staring at his wrist in the Airbender's hand, thinking that something is not quite right, for his stomach is lurching uncomfortably in a way that reminds him of flying.

Choden smiles. His teeth are bright and even. "I wish that we were taught to use other weaponry. But our people are pacifists. The only aid to our bending is our glider staves, and we're never really taught to fight with them."

"Oh," says Zuko.

Choden is still holding his wrist. His arrows peek out of his sleeves.

"Tell me the rest of the story, for that play earlier," he says quietly.

Zuko is definitely confused. "Why in the world—?"

"I'd like to hear the rest. Just think of yourself as my tour guide."

Zuko thinks if he squints at Choden, this will all make more sense.

"Humor me," implores the Airbender, squeezing his wrist.

Zuko feels he has no other options, really. He digs through his memory.

"Without her feathered robe, the goddess cannot fly, so she can't return to Heaven. The man takes the goddess for his wife and hides her robe in a secret place. They bear many children, but the goddess weeps all day and night. When her children are old enough, they ask her why she cries in front of them, but she only tells them about her robe. Their father—he's a fisherman, I think— sings a song as he works, and the children sing it to their mother. It tells the whereabouts of her robe, so she finds it and leaves them to go back to Heaven."

"She just leaves, then?"

"I think so," says Zuko hesitantly.

Choden laughs again. He laughs often. "Tomorrow, we'll find him."

"Tomorrow I have—things to attend to."

His wrist is left suddenly hanging in the air. It feels cold.

Choden says, "Tomorrow night, then. Good night, Prince Zuko," and then he is gone, walking lightly down the hall, not quite touching the floor.

Zuko retreats back to his chamber, changes, and sleeps fitfully.

* * *

A snack, that's it. A snack, nothing more. Or maybe a cooler, a cooler full of meat and deliciousness. He did not eat enough earlier, didn't eat enough at all. Now he'd gnaw at his bedposts happily. Katara had kicked him out once his stomach had started up its own orchestra— _Ancestors, Sokka, get some food for the sake of…_

Too bad he doesn't know where to find the kitchens, and there's not a servant in sight.

There are voices though, deep ones, resonating quietly down the hallway, and Sokka would like to think on his less clumsy days he is a stealth master. He walks closer, closer, hides behind one of the decorative curtains—or decorative tapestries, whatever. Perhaps he didn't quite hide behind it—alright, he stands next to it, smooshed against the wall, but there's a curve in the hallway, so maybe they still can't see him.

Someone is telling a story, one he's heard before. Something his mother used to tell him before—

Is that the jerk? And who, who is that other person?

He chances a quick glance around the corner, only to see his fiancé and that Airbender boy. Are they—holding hands?

Sokka doesn't care. His stomach feels like it is at his feet, but he doesn't care. The jerk is a jerk, and apparently, a loose one as well. The only thing that troubles him is the fact that he has to deal with both a loveless, fruitless marriage for the rest of his days, with a man that isn't even truly his.

But putting a label on it like that, it makes something in his shrivel, and all of a sudden his head is pounding and his stomach is hollow, but no longer hungry.

He doesn't even like his fiancé. The word is bitter, even as he thinks it, doesn't even say it aloud. The jerk is stupid and mean and has three dozen sticks up his ass—and don't go there—and he'd just be generally insufferable forever and ever, and maybe Sokka should just go get a nice little concubine, wouldn't that be nice? One day and their marriage or whatever this is supposed to be has already dissolved, and maybe he likes it that way.

Yeah, maybe he does.

He hears them bid each other a sweet and sugary farewell and wants to wretch. The Prince's footsteps disappear and Sokka wants to laugh, because of course they put him in the jerk's own private wing. He storms back to his room, waking up Katara with his shuffling and angry mutterings, which earns him another water whip in the face. Sullen, angry, and now wet, he sinks into plush Fire Nation affluence and feels a feather poking him through his pillow and dammit can't he ever get a break?

His stomach growls. When he finally falls asleep in an angry haze, he sleeps as he always does, heavy as a stone, heavy as his chest feels, something he won't admit.

* * *

A/N: I'm back, and before you guys get all mad that Choden is a flirt, let me assure you that this is solidly Sokka/Zukko, blah blah. Just remember when Zuko was like, "What do I have to do? Wait for my imminent lust for men to set it?" Well, here it is.

Sorry, life caught up with me. I haven't written anything in a long time, and my style's changed somewhat. It may have gotten drier. Until next time, which I promise won't be like three years, thank you all for coming.


	5. Dawning

**Marriage Something.**

_Dawning._

There is still a chill when Zuko awakens, his shoulders stiff and his eyes crusted over unattractively. He rubs at them petulantly and sits up, taking note of the smattering of feeble orange light that winds through his windows, signaling the rising of the sun. Even the sight of it courses a bit of energy through his veins, so he gets up slowly, wrapping himself in a robe, and pads out of his chamber and down the hall.

They are there as always, Azula and Uncle, in his wing because it has the best view of the sky. They sit side by side on the open railing, legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating. They do not speak, for they do not need to—Azula's predatory nature had always unsettled Uncle, but on quiet mornings they bond wordlessly and bring a sense of tranquility to their often troubled relationship. Uncle rises early, always early, and he had told Zuko that it was because the Fire Nation barracks—where he spent much of his youth— were always rattled awake earlier than the sun. Zuko forgives the old man's midday siestas, though, because he secretly thinks that Uncle rises early, still, as a remnant of when he used to escort Lu Ten to school.

Zuko sits heavily beside Uncle, staring as the glowing rays of orange embrace the sleeping nation and stir them to wakefulness. He hears Azula snort quietly and Uncle peeks open one eye to glance at him, full of good humor.

"Good morning, my nephew," he says, the side of his mouth that only Zuko can see quirking upward.

"Morning Uncle, Azula," Zuko replies mildly, feeling strangely at ease.

"I could hear you from the second you opened your eyes, you bumbling cod," says Azula, without opening her own.

"Nice to see you, too, Azula," he mutters, and even without looking at her Zuko knows she is preening.

"It's awfully early for you, isn't it Zuko? It's not often I see you out here with us," Uncle says, closing his eyes again.

"Because he sleeps like a log," says Azula. "Until noon or later every day, a waste of space."

Zuko ignores her. "I didn't sleep well." He shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal.

"And why is that, my nephew? Excited to see your—"

"Boyfriend? Lover? Sexual slave?" interjects Azula.

"—betrothed?" finishes Uncle, with a quirked brow, completely unaffected otherwise.

Zuko is redder than all the palace's red knick-knacks put together, and dammit, there's a lot of fucking red around here.

"No! Azula!" he says, reprimanding. Well, whining.

Azula just smirks.

"How is the lad, anyhow?" cuts in Uncle with a smile.

"I don't know. Blue?" says Zuko quietly, swinging his feet back and forth. Despite being the older sibling, Zuko has always felt much younger than he is, especially with his Uncle and sister still and disciplined beside him.

Azula laughs viciously, "Blue! Oh, your sense of humor is a wreck, brother."

"Perhaps he's sad, Azula," inserts Uncle gently.

"Sad? Zuko isn't sad, or else he would be moping insufferably."

"He meant that fool, Azula," Zuko grinds out.

"Language, Zuko Your betrothed must be treated with respect," says Uncle breezily, chuckling.

The sun is stronger on Zuko's face now, and he can see the beginnings of blue creeping into the canvas of the sky. Suddenly he wants to tell his Uncle—and maybe his sister— about Choden, the Airbender who practically spirited him away last night. He wants desperately to tell them that he is looking for the Avatar on his own, rather than just letting the Royal Guard handle it, and he wants to let them know that it is merely on the whim of this Airbender, who laughs low and would be creeping into his window tonight. He wants to tell them, but he is absolutely unsure why— perhaps because there is a rising feeling in his chest that both twists his stomach and frees it, an unnamed feeling that makes him uncomfortable and frightened. The more he mulls over it, the more he wants to get up and go back to sleep, sleep until noon, Azula's disapproval be damned.

"Okay, Zuko? You seem troubled." His Uncle's face is turned to him now, a glimmer of concern and something that looks to Zuko like pity in his eyes.

"No, Uncle, I'm— well, I'm good," says Zuko lowly, staring into his Uncle's face and lying.

"Your slang is reprehensible," says Azula.

"Well, you're being a jerk today," bites out Zuko.

"The little ice cube is awake, I can hear him. Invite him to breakfast," says Azula.

"What the—" Zuko can never understand how much of a fox his sister can be. She's able to avoid the criticisms of every one but their father. Untouchable, she is. With uncanny hearing.

"That's a great idea," says Uncle warmly.

"Now," says Azula.

"You can't tell me what to do anymore, Azula!" says Zuko, crossing his arms petulantly and staring forward.

"Oh, but I can," says her voice in his ear, and fucking Ancestors when did she—

Azula grabs him as he falls forward, a length of his hair in her claws because apparently, she can teleport now, or something. Snake, snake, little snake.

She laughs and says, "Oh, but Zuzu, it's for the better. Building a relationship solidly is something achieved through communication, kindness, and affection."

"You know nothing about any of that!" yells Zuko, incongruously loud in the still sleep-filled eyes of the dawn.

"Oh, but you love me, don't you?" purrs Azula, and lets go of his hair. He staggers forward into his uncle's arm, which stretches out to steady him.

"Azula," warns Uncle, and Azula traipses off down the hall toward the training halls without a word.

Zuko is very, very angry, and it's too early, and dammit, why does he have to have the smartest, meanest _little _sister in the whole world? He bets no one else has to deal with this.

His stewing is interrupted by Uncle's hand on his shoulder, a reassuring sort of pressure.

"She's right, you know," he says gently.

"I know she's right, Uncle!" explodes Zuko, but he immediately feels guilty. "Sorry."

"You had to inherit something from that brother of mine," says Uncle lightly.

"All the rest was magicked into that stupid sister of _mine_," says Zuko under his breath.

"Growing up with your father was sometimes very much the same. However, some of your mother is in Azula, I think, the possessiveness that keeps her rude, but loyal to those she cares about. Sadly with Ozai— he's a ruthless man. Children, I thought, could temper it, but—"

"No," says Zuko, and it's not an unfamiliar conversation.

Uncle may even seem older in the morning light, but he looks at Zuko and makes a shooing motion. "Go, nephew."

Zuko gets up, smiles tentatively, and heads back toward the fool's chamber.

* * *

Sokka wakes up much too early, to Katara shaking him. She looks a bit out of sorts along with the healthy dose of really tired, and Sokka is up in an instant.

"What's the matter?" he presses, he voice rough in his throat.

"Someone's at the door," says Katara. She looks doubtful.

"Who?" he says.

"I don't know," she says, and creeps back to her bed, covering herself.

Sokka gets up, slips his club from his sealskin pack and edges toward the door, where there is a soft, but persistent knocking. Maybe he's overreacting, but danger is everywhere, says his father, and Sokka doesn't trust these Fire Nations enough to not have a wake-up brigade composed of those hideously servile soldiers from yesterday.

He opens the door with a sudden jerking motion and nearly dives behind a curtain, all in the same motion, only to hear a grousing "Ouch!" and an annoyed huff.

Oh. The jerk is there, rubbing his nose from where the door apparently hit him in the face, and well— he deserved that one for punching Sokka in the face yesterday. It still hurt, and Katara wouldn't heal what she called his "love boo-boo," even after a strung out bout of obstinate whining.

"What is the matter with you?" growls the jerk, emphasizing every other word so it seems like he's saying WHAT is THE MATTER with YOU. Sokka doesn't like to split hairs, but he thinks that maybe the jerk is angry. He is standing stiffly, as if there are a thousand places he would rather be, and he looks shiftily left and right as if he doesn't want to make eye contact.

"Breakfast," says the jerk with no further under-his-breath-swearing, and he relaxes until he finally looks at Sokka. "It's in a few hours." His nose is red and there are tears in his eyes, but he still manages to look aloof, or maybe like something very unpleasant was just thrust under his nose. Sokka marvels at his ability to look like a complete tightwad at Ancestors know what crack of dawn this ugly time is.

"And?" prompts Sokka, his club still in his hand, but perhaps not held so threateningly high. Well, not in the jerk's face.

"I'd like— you. To go." The jerk's eyes are nearly crossing with the effort to be cordial, Sokka thinks.

"I plan on going to breakfast," sniffs Sokka. Why would he decline a meal, like ever?

"With me. I'd like you to go. With me," says the jerk with his eyes crossed and his stupid face all scrunched and red and ugly— alright, Sokka's just exaggerating a teeny bit.

Wait, what?

"With you," says Sokka.

"With me," confirms the jerk, still crossing his eyes, or maybe he's not, like Sokka said— hair splitting.

He notices the jerk is in a thin robe that's a reddish pink color. Pretty flamboyant, if you asked Sokka, and maybe Sokka just doesn't want to notice the length of collarbone—

"Shouldn't you be asking someone with less hair?" says Sokka quickly and bitingly.

"What?" grouses the grouch.

Sokka isn't pulling his punches. "Someone about, this tall?" Here he motions a little length taller than himself. "With a big arrow? Can control air, and all that?"

The jerk splutters indignantly, coloring.

"I thought so," says Sokka, something hurting in his stomach. It's probably just too early.

"But _you're _my fiance!" says the jerk once he is done spitting everywhere.

"So what?" challenges Sokka. I'm so brilliant, he thinks gleefully, and tries not to let it show on his face.

"Which means you're coming to breakfast with me!" says the jerk, again emphasizing his words, so Which MEANS you're COMING to BREAKFAST with ME.

"Who says I have to? I can just go with my sister!" replies Sokka triumphantly, as the jerk colors even deeper, this time an ugly rusty color from all the angry feelings he must be feeling from being caught cheating. Not cheating. Whatever.

"Not if you don't shut up!" says Katara's voice from her bed far behind him.

The jerk looks like he's about to laugh, but he doesn't.

"I'll have you know you can't deny loving me forever! I'll tell Dad!" Sokka shouts behind him, then rounds back on the jerk. "See? She'll go with me. Instead of you."

The jerk appears to be grinding his teeth. That's a shame, he has nice— anyway.

"You will meet me outside in this corridor in an hour and a half," he says and Sokka thinks he sounds like he's constipated. "Then I will take you to breakfast and you will talk to my mother and learn to use chopsticks, you ignorant buffoon!"

"I don't need to!" says Sokka.

"You will do as I command!" says the jerk, starting to raise a finger.

"You and what army!" says Sokka, and he nearly sticks out his tongue.

"The Fire Nation army!" roars the jerk, and really, it's very early, but this is gold, pure gold.

"Well, we have an army too!" continues Sokka, knowing he's needling and enjoying every second of it.

"You would go to war over _breakfast_?" shouts the jerk, his hands all bunched up at his sides.

"Yes," says Sokka petulantly.

The jerk pounces on him, knocks him to the ground, and shakes him violently, and Sokka isn't scared, not one bit, not of this wild tiger that he's apparently going to marry. He may look like he's scared, whimpering and all, but oh, he's not.

"Can't you take that outside?" moans Katara from her bed.

"Go to breakfast with me!" the jerk is shouting, shaking his shoulders up and down, and it's getting really dizzy—

"N-no!" Sokka yells back.

"Go with me! Or else!"

"No!"

"_Go to breakfast with me, you ignorant, blithering oaf!"_

"_NO!"_

And then they're both covered in water.

Katara really has wonderful aim, and a very, very loud voice.

"_Sokka, if you don't go to breakfast with him just to shut him up I swear to every single one of our Ancestors that neither of you will consummate anything on your wedding night because you will lack the bits to do it!" _She sounds like the ominous voice of a god, booming down from the ceiling, and it's really a miracle, because the last he saw of her she had her head under the pillow.

The jerk is still on top of him, now wet and wide-eyed.

There is a heartbeat in Sokka's ears, thumping in time with the blood rushing in his skull, and the jerk's little robe is now much more transparent than it was a small time ago, and he's on top of Sokka and it's not— what is— Sokka can't—

Then it's over, because the jerk flies up and off of him, rights himself and pulls lamely at his robe. He clears his throat, and in a voice that is absent of all the anger and meanness it had before, he says, "I'll see you in an hour and a half," and flees. Sokka is left on the floor, and wishes desperately that he could just fall back into bed.

He gets up, strips off his wet clothing, and does just that, but his mind is alight with the word "consummate," and it makes him want to twist and cover his eyes in horror, but maybe it doesn't, and that, _that _makes him want to twist and cover his eyes in horror. Not long ago, he had said to himself that perhaps he could love the calm, sleeping boy in the tub, but the one who jumped him and thumped his head against the floor repeatedly, punched him in the face and called him stupid at every turn? Who cheated on him with bald guys? Who the hell likes bald guys? Love an unfaithful, disrespectful, violent jerk? No, he would not. Not ever.

* * *

"Ah, nephew," says Uncle as Zuko nears his room. He is still seated at the railing, legs crossed, eyes closed.

"I don't want to talk about it," says Zuko miserably, plopping down beside him.

"About what?" says Uncle obliviously, with a note of laughter in his voice.

"I tackled him," says Zuko.

"Oh, but so soon?" says Uncle.

Zuko just places his head in his hands.

* * *

An hour or so of wishing he could sink into the floor is interrupted by his uncle excusing himself, and reminding him quietly to get ready for breakfast.

Okay, so maybe the fool managed to see— whatever it was between him and Choden last night. Not that big of a deal. But to let it get in the way of Zuko's graciousness, that was an entirely different matter. There was no need to be so annoying, and not listen to Zuko's kindness and think that—

Wait, what did the fool think? Zuko rises and headed toward his room in silence, mulling over this idea. He washes out his hair— who knew where that Waterbender princess had gotten that water— and his admittedly haggard face and still, he thinks and thinks.

Could the fool have wanted to be around Choden too? After all, the Airbender has connections with the Avatar. Even Zuko is enticed by that fact— meeting the Avatar! Ancestors! He begins to strip off his sodden clothing in favor of an outfit of loose black pants and a black button-up vest trimmed in red.

Maybe the fool hated Airbenders. Maybe he actually really liked them. Maybe he liked—

Zuko stops lacing up his simple shoes, his mind grinding to a crashing halt.

Maybe he wanted Choden's attention! Ancestors, why didn't he see it before? Maybe— well, he hates to think the soothsayers were right, saying they were bound to gay it up eventually, but what if Sokka, unlike Zuko, was attracted to men in the first place? The thought brings squirmy feelings to Zuko's stomach, and he resumes tying his shoes, suddenly thinking he wants nothing more than to flee the country. What if Sokka liked men, just as much as he liked Airbenders, and what if he said that to Zuko to warn Zuko to stay away from Choden?

What if the fool was in love with Choden! What if he thought the Airbender was as attractive as Zuko thought— wait, _stop._

With a profound new insight on his fiance, Zuko exits his room to seek him, but Ancestors know what the hell he's going to say, or do. Perhaps he can just bring it up tentatively, smoothly— but Zuko is as subtle as a punch in the stomach. Or a pandalion on your chest. He has a feeling that this morning shall not go particularly well, but he feels he has a duty to be nice. Maybe he can ask what Sokka thought about Choden, or why he brought it up. Still, it didn't resolve the fact that the fool had refused his offer because he wanted Zuko to bring Choden instead. But maybe he was being sarcastic about that, Zuko's not good with these things. Did he want Zuko to bring Choden so that Choden would have to sit near them? Or maybe he didn't want Zuko to bring Choden at all— or, Zuko just has a headache. A thick tension unfurls behind his eyes, and he figures maybe he'll roll with the punches and ask—and here he can't help but flinch— Azula later.

* * *

"I don't want to go!"

"Sokka, good grief. Just put on pants and go to breakfast."

"Not with him!" Sokka's not under his covers or anything.

"Sokka, get out from under those covers and bring honor to the Southern Water Tribe!"

"You don't understand, Katara!"

"Well, please enlighten me, Your Majesty, before I dress you myself!"

Sokka bursts out from underneath his covers, which he wasn't hiding under or anything, and whines, "You wouldn't understand."

"Not if you don't tell me," says Katara lightly. She comes nearer, her eyes softer, and sits next to him. "What happened between you and Prince Zuko?"

"Nothing," says Sokka petulantly.

There it is again, the killing intent. His sister is stronger than him, his little sister, and it's the source of his everlasting anguish.

"Alright, well, last night—" he starts, then mumbles the rest.

"What was that? Just tell me, Sokka. What are you afraid of?" Her hand is on his knee now, and he looks up at her to see the most mothering look she has ever mustered, and he feels a part of him cave in.

"Last night I saw him with that Airbender. They seemed kind of touchy-feely."

Katara actually laughs and— what! Brother in pain here.

"Did they do anything?" asks Katara, her eyes full of mirth.

"They were holding hands," says Sokka.

"Are you jealous?" asks Katara without any real warning, her voice a pitch higher on the word "jealous," something that he is completely, utterly not.

"No!" he says obstinately. "It's not like that!"

"Oh, isn't it?" asks Katara.

"Completely isn't," nods Sokka.

"Alright, well, if it isn't like that, then you have no reason to refuse to go to breakfast with your fiance," finishes Katara smartly.

"I do too!" says Sokka. "He's a big fat jerk!"

"Because?"

"He just is! You saw what he did earlier!"

"He wouldn't have done that if you hadn't baited him."

"Who in the world acts that violent all the time? He's like a firework waiting to go off!"

"Well, he is a Firebender," muses Katara, her thumbnail in between her front teeth. "Who knows," she continues slyly, "maybe he just wanted to be on top of you."

"Katara!" Sokka is honestly scandalized, for the sake of his own chastity, and because that's his baby sister talking, for Ancestors' sake.

"Or maybe," Katara continues devilishly, "you_ liked_ it."

"I did not! I did absolutely, completely, swearing on all of the Water Tribes put together, on our family, on our longhouse, on everything ever, _did not!_" says Sokka loudly.

"Oh yeah?" needles Katara.

"Yeah!" says Sokka, sticking out his tongue and pretending to retch.

Katara's gaze is intense. "Get up, you. Get up and get dressed. Your breakfast date is here."

Sokka hears knocking and makes to duck under his covers again, but at the sight of the threatening gourd of water Katara keeps at her side, he springs up and dresses quickly, grumbling all the while.

* * *

He's here, outside the fool's chamber, pacing. The Water Tribe princess had already come out to tell him to give the fool a bit more time. She had then smiled wanly and retreated back into the recesses of their chamber.

What is he to do? Smile and nod and take the fool to breakfast, that's what. Nothing bad can come out of being agreeable, so Zuko pastes on a smile— not a grimace, what have you— once the Water Tribesman appears with his sister.

"Hello," Zuko says, and bows neatly at the waist. If the fool is surprised— well, Zuko doesn't quite look him in the eye, so that's not really important.

"Hello," says the fool, after his sister elbows him sharply. Zuko thinks that this may be the start of something wonderful or incredibly frightening, having a future sister-in-law like this.

"I'll just go on ahead," says the Water Tribe princess, traipsing down the hall.

They are alone.

Zuko wonders if he should offer a hand, or arm, or something equally intimate, but he just watches as the fool gruffly brushes ahead of him, not saying a word.

"Wait!" says Zuko, and he feels rather pathetic.

The fool doesn't even stop, trudging ahead like there's a tidal wave behind him. Zuko nearly has to run to keep up.

"Will you wait for me?" says Zuko, and he grabs the fool's arm, only to be pushed back crudely.

"I don't need you to guide me," snaps the fool, but he's stopped in his tracks.

"Look, I'm sorry about— earlier," starts Zuko.

"Nothing to be sorry about," says the fool, and Zuko is suddenly staring into his face, and he feels like this will be a rare occurrence.

"There is— I shouldn't have reacted so badly," says Zuko, swallowing all his pride in a painful intake of breath.

"Yeah, you shouldn't have," says the fool under his breath, and he is studying Zuko warily.

Zuko feels bold. "I'm really very sorry," he says in one quick burst.

"Just take me to breakfast," says the fool, and he turns away, but he doesn't move.

"Do you know where you are?" ventures Zuko.

The fool is silent, but his dark face gets a bit darker, and Zuko thinks he may be blushing.

"This way," says Zuko, and he starts to walk ahead of him. The Water Tribesman follows in silence, and Zuko can already tell that this— this is going to be a long day.

* * *

Breakfast is a bustling affair, with servants milling here and there, placing finishing touches on the table before the Royal Family is seated. It is held in a more minor dining hall, the one Zuko's mother likes because it has so many windows that it may as well be outside. Even in the morning the air in the Fire Nation is sun-warmed and smells like nectar that languishing flowers sacrifice under the heat.

The Water Tribe Princess is already seated when Zuko and Sokka enter, sitting in close proximity to one another quietly. Zuko wonders how she found her way alone, but by the glares she is volleying at Azula, who is perfectly trim in her long, dark pink dress and typical red lips, Zuko can guess that his sister had lured her here. Ah, such good friends, they are.

The lack of big blue arrows is worrying to Zuko, but just as the rest of his family sits, he feels a slightly stronger breeze, and there is Monk Gyatso, Monk Yonten, and Choden, and his chest suddenly feels wild.

"Forgive our tardiness," says Monk Gyatso pleasantly, bowing neatly toward Zuko's mother, who only smiles and gestures for them to sit.

Monk Yonten seems sour as ever, his face so puckered that Zuko imagines pushing a wedge of lemon into it would dissolve his skin, leaving only a crotchety skeleton behind. He sits with no comment to his mother, something that vaguely pokes at all of Zuko's finishing school training. Then Zuko realizes he has a separate compartment in his mind _for_ _finishing school training _that interacts with his daily thoughts, and good Ancestors, he's doomed.

Choden looks fresh-faced and much more comfortable than when he last sat with them. His face now reminds Zuko much more of his demeanor last night, free and a bit wild and curious and lov—

Doomed, that's still it. An accurate representation of what Zuko is feeling, but the dread builds up and breaks down and builds up again, but Zuko cannot pin why exactly it is there at all. He spares a glance at Sokka, and notices that the fool is watching Choden, too. There is a small dip in his cheek from the odd expression he is making, one side of his mouth drawn back and dipping into a frown.

Maybe he does love Choden, after all. To Zuko that seems like a love struck look as any. Zuko has never even been close to being in love, but he imagines if he were in love, he'd look something like that.

Zuko makes himself a meal of bland cereals, which he pours steaming water into. He figures he must at least try to eat, and he picks something as tasteless as he feels.

The fool beside him though, is piling sausages and rice and meat and anything inordinately large on his plate, all the while staring across the table at the hapless Airbender, who has noticed, but seems to be taking it in stride. The table seems to have split off into an age differentiation, with the elders speaking excitedly in a conversation separate from those around Zuko's age, excluding Monk Yonten, who sucks the color out of everything around him like a vortex of self important crankiness.

Azula is fighting with the Water Tribe princess again, and Zuko can see the familiar bout of confusion flooding into hatred in Katara's face as Azula rings out, most likely in an utterly random fashion, "Training? You could train with me, if you like, and I'll promise not to singe off that pretty hair of yours when you're left weeping under my foot."

Katara is all raised hackles when she responds, "You're on. We'll train after this, right Sokka, Zuko? It will be _fun,_" and her hand, Zuko can see, is ruthlessly gripping at her brother's forearm.

"Sure," says the fool around a mouthful and the spoon that the servants had placed in front of him without much fuss. "I guess."

"That sounds lovely," says Choden suddenly, "I'd love to join." The stares he gets bring no color to his cheeks, but his hand reaches up behind his head as he grins at them. "I can't miss an opportunity to spar with other benders, after all," he supplies needlessly.

Azula's look could split wood. "That would be an honor," she says intensely, and Zuko can see the cogs spinning in her head— she wants to completely dominate Choden in the same ways she wants to dominate Katara, wants to burn them to a crisp just so she can claim another victory in the name of fire. If there were an Earthbender present, too, Zuko would expect her to be the closest to happy weeping he'd ever seen her. He thinks it would look something like a simple, toothy, manic grin.

"Then it's a date," declares Katara, and her eyes are on Azula, and Zuko almost feels sorry for her.

"No one to tattle to, little Waterbender," croons Azula, "when I brand my name into your back."

The situation is too far gone, Zuko thinks pitifully, when Katara rises to the bait and shoots back a chilling insult that possibly only makes Azula happier.

"Prince Sokka, is it?"

Zuko's attention shoots to Choden, addressing the fool with a little smile, and Zuko wants to shout "No, stop!" for a plethora of confusing reasons that evaporate when Sokka swallows and regards the Airbender with that same look— lovestruck, thinks Zuko— and speaks.

"Choden. Nice to meet you."

Choden is sheepish, his hands up a little. "Forgive me, I didn't speak to you yesterday, but I am well aware who you are."

"You're an Airbending master, then?" says the fool, and takes a bite, which he chews slowly in a less embarrassing fashion.

Choden seems to beam at this. "Yes, actually. I have only had my tattoos a few years, but I'm very proud of them."

"Did they hurt?" blurts Zuko, and he wants to shrink when two pairs of eyes, blue and hazel, alight upon him.

The fool stares at him with a look he cannot decipher, but Choden is beaming again, as if glad he spoke.

"Oh, yes, it was horrid. Just a pointed stick and some blue ink, if I recall. I nearly don't remember it all because I may have passed out a few times. I hate pain. But it's all in the name of tradition, I suppose," Choden says and smiles, staring Zuko directly in the eye.

"Water Tribe men and women get tattooed, too," says Sokka suddenly.

"Oh?" says Choden encouragingly. He seems eager to learn everything he can, and this, Zuko thinks, is something he can admire.

"We usually use paint, now," says Sokka and bites his lip, as if he is revealing something he does not want to. "But the older generations still hold onto a few tattooing traditions. They used to tattoo a lot."

"For what? Where?" blurts Zuko again, and curses his faulty mouth. He had told himself to stay quiet so as not to encourage conversation with the fool.

"It's superstition, mostly. Usually the tattoos are a series of dots, to protect us from harmful spirits. That's the most common, and we still get those. But older women used to get tattooed— little lines on their chins and foreheads, but nowadays they just use paint. It used to be to distinguish men from women. Warriors, devoted ones, are tattooed with little things that look like animal parts, like tusks, to protect them from animal spirits when they're hunting," says Sokka pensively, as if he had never quite put all this into words.

"So do you have tattoos?" asks Choden.

Sokka— the fool colors. "No," he says defensively. "But I will soon. Katara might even have to do it," he says proudly. "And we just use a needle, lamp oil ink, and a bit of pine."

"Why will Princess Katara be doing it?" asks Choden curiously.

"Only women are tattoo artists," answers the fool, "and they're always Waterbenders with healing abilities."

"A healer, too?" says Choden soberly. "Some of you get all the luck."

"It'll hurt either way!" says the fool indignantly, and Zuko wonders why he would want something to hurt.

"I trust it will," says Choden.

"I'm next in line to the Chieftain, so I'll be getting a lot," says the fool importantly. "So many I might pass out."

Choden nods but all Zuko can think of is why in the world is he so proud of being an incredible, fainting pincushion? Zuko will never understand him.

Then it hits him. Is he trying to impress Choden? The thought makes Zuko frown.

"Thinking of all the tattoos you have to get, too?" says Choden, smiling again at Zuko.

"We don't really get tattoos," says Zuko. "Not traditionally. It's more of a personal choice here. Like a form of expression." He leaves out the fact that they are generally looked down upon, because clear, untainted skin is considered a blessing.

Choden nods sagely. "The only tattoos we get are our arrows." He turns to the fool, who appears to be floundering for no apparent reason. "And are you a Waterbender, Prince Sokka?"

Zuko knows the answer, wants to bring it up just to taunt the fool, but he buttons his lips this time.

"No," says Sokka, his chin up. "I'm a warrior."

"So you've mastered a weapon?" asks Choden interestedly.

"Well— mastered?" splutters the fool.

"Yes," speaks up Zuko, and he's actually interested this time. The fool is looking directly at him, and his lower lip is tucked under his teeth. "You've mastered a weapon, surely, as a warrior," continues Zuko. He hopes the answer is yes yes yes, because Ancestors forbid, he can't have a completely worthless husband.

"I have a boomerang, a machete, and a club—" starts the fool, but his sister interrupts smartly, her hand up to halt Azula's barrage of insults (it doesn't work).

"Sokka has mastered the jian sword."

"K-Katara!" says the fool, and he gets darker again.

"What, you have," says Katara loudly, in order to drown out the feathery yawn that Azula lets out as she looks at her nails disinterestedly. "Don't you want to let them know who trained you?"

"N-no! I don't think—"

"Master Piandao," says Katara proudly, and Zuko's vision tilts a little, he is so surprised. She must be mistaken. Azula's eyes are now on Sokka, unwavering.

"Piandao. He trained _you_?" she says acridly.

Sokka—maybe he's not such a fool if his sister is telling the truth— looks down and says, "He did, but we—"

Azula sniffs and says, "Excuse me, mother," toward the head of the table, and leaves. She throws over her shoulder, in what seems like an afterthought, but Zuko knows Azula better than that, "Bring him, too, little Waterbender, in half an hour. Do not make me wait."

There is a marked silence in her wake, broken by Choden, who asks, "Is she always like that?"

"You have no idea," says Zuko, and sinks a little in his seat. He can see Katara doing the same.

She addresses him companionably, to Zuko's surprise, "Good Ancestors, she's gone. How do you live with her?" She gives him a weary look and Zuko half-smiles.

"It's a big palace, you know."

"Who is Piandao?" asks Choden. The Airbender is full of questions, it seems, and even though Zuko isn't much of a talker the answers pulls at him.

"He's a living legend. A bladesmith and renowned swordsmaster. You've never heard of him?" At Choden's mute shake of the head, Zuko goes on, "He's possibly one of the most powerful nonbenders alive."

Sokka is looking down and stuffing food into his mouth.

Katara claps him on the back. "Tell them!" she says, and he looks at her in this sidelong way that seems to promise a lot of whining later (that is, if the fool is as ineffectual in respect to his baby sister as Zuko is).

Sokka looks pained. "I didn't finish my training with him," he says. "My dad asked him to come train me about three or four years ago, but we never finished."

"You did too!" insists Katara. She addresses the rest of the table. "Piandao said he was ready, that he was a master. Or—"

"He said I was skilled, but far from a master," says Sokka.

"He said you could surpass him one day!" presses Katara, and Zuko's world once again tips on its side.

The idea pulls at Zuko, the more competitive part of him yearns and stirs and says over and over _prove it_, but he says instead, "He wouldn't even train Azula."

This is met with an unsettling silence. The adults chatter on, but it seems so far away.

"Honestly! She can't be that great," huffs Katara.

It's only fair if she knows.

"Please be careful when you're sparring Azula," says Zuko, rubbing the back of his hand absently under the table. "She's very— ruthless."

"You think I can't hold my own against her?" Katara seems to puff up, and Zuko back pedals.

"No, I'm sure you're a good Waterbender, but Azula is just— well, she's on her own level, I suppose you can say."

Choden is nodding sagely. "She's that perfectionist type, I'd imagine."

Zuko lets out a harsh breath similar to a laugh. "Again, you have no idea."

If anything, Katara's blue eyes are even steelier. "I'll mop the floor with her," she says, her lips curling downward. "Right, Sokka?"

Sokka seems caught off guard. He had been mulling over several large bites. "Ah, yeah, sure."

Katara's look is even more intense and Sokka caves, "Yeah, alright, you'll make an ice sculpture out of her. Scariest one ever, but yeah."

Katara smiles winningly, and excuses herself to change.

Choden and Sokka are left, and the fool seems intent on eating himself into a coma. Despite the desperate sort of nostalgia this inspires, Zuko reaches out and whisks his plate away to the ready hands of a passing servant.

At Sokka's squawking, Zuko only replies, "No more eating, you can't spar with me if you're circular." Then he realizes that he'd given away his supposedly more clandestine intentions: to lure Sokka from Azula's clutches and needle him into a spar, with weapons, because Piandao, really? This foolhardy brown oaf? He must have a conversation with his old mentor.

The fool is glaring at him now, and he opens his mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by Choden's surprised laughter.

"Oh, you guys really _are_ engaged," says Choden, and he seems genuinely surprised and he stares at them in wonder.

"What?" say Zuko and the fool at the same time, then they give each other dirty looks.

"It's not like—" starts Zuko, but then his mind shuts down a little. It's not what? A betrothal? Because it is.

"We don't like each other," emphasizes the fool, and Zuko regards him suddenly. His face is red and he looks like he's swallowed something too big for his throat, like a toad.

"Yes, we do not," confirms Zuko, nodding vigorously, but he feels a bit off— why are they having this conversation?

Choden laughs again, that low laugh that reminds Zuko of rolling hills, and he winks at Zuko. "Well, that's reassuring. I'll see you guys wherever Azula is training or practicing or whatever, I assume the servants can tell me which way?" He departs, and Zuko is beet red to the roots of his hair. He imagines even the air in his immediate vicinity has caught fire. The fool is staring back and forth between Choden's retreating back and Zuko's flaming face and he is sputtering nonsense again.

Zuko tunes in at, "_What the hell was that?!" _and there are expletives too, ugly ones said with a bit of flair, and ones that Zuko imagines are originally from the Southern Water Tribe.

"What was what?" says Zuko, head down, focusing on his hands to soothe all the blood that has camped out in his face.

"_That _that!" roars the fool smartly, and Zuko gets up suddenly, nodding politely to the adults present, who pay them no mind, and moving in the direction of his chambers. The fool is right behind him, yelling.

"Reassuring? Reassuring? I'll show him reassuring!" says the fool, and trails off into random blabber to himself. Zuko isn't quite focused on the fool, but all he can think of is the very same: _reassuring_? Something in him is set aflutter, as much as he squashes it down.

When they reach the fool's chamber, he continues on to his without looking back.

* * *

A/N: I know you guys weren't asking, but for your information, the important people have ages:

Zuko: 19

Sokka: 18

Katara: 17

Aang: 15

Azula: 17

Choden: 19, going on 20

I haven't super worked out the Choden one. I kind of write this as it comes to mind.

Next up, fight scenes! I'll try my best, so they're not just talking all the time. Maybe there will be more characters, too. Zuko and Sokka are still working out the whole "I'm engaged to a boy" thing, which is not helped by their infamous tempers. Hopefully they can start referring to each other by their given names exclusively soon, or I might rage quit.

Thanks for coming!


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